


bottle rocket

by neversleepingagain



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Career Ending Injuries, Friends to Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Hockey AU, M/M, National Hockey League, Not Actually Unrequited Love, because no one else would write it, figuring out your sexuality as an adult, keith has so many feelings someone help hi, other characters from VLD also around but not until later in the story, some hockey too i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18792235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversleepingagain/pseuds/neversleepingagain
Summary: Keith doesn't even like hockey the first time he meets Takashi Shirogane. He minds it a lot less when they're playing together.





	1. game misconduct

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nightswatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightswatch/gifts).



> happ birth, cloud-cloud, this 4 u
> 
>  
> 
> (thank you to jayme for cheer-reading & kis for the beta and hockey nitpicks! if anything is still wrong, it's my bad and i 100% don't care and don't need to be told kthx.)

Keith is twelve when his foster family sends him to hockey camp in the summer. It’s free for them - Keith had qualified for one of low-income scholarships and they weren’t ones to deny the gift of a full week without Keith so they packed him on the bus with nothing but his threadbare backpack and took off despite Keith’s sour look. 

He doesn’t even like hockey. 

It isn’t the worst week ever. 

On the next to last day of the camp, one of the Juniors players that is acting as skills assistant pulls up next to Keith on the ice. His name is something that Keith can’t quite pronounce. He’s tall and muscular, his jet black hair falling into his face constantly. He had rolled his eyes at one of the other assistants who insisted everyone call him Shiro instead of his real name on the first day, but seems unbothered by it when they actually do. Keith likes him best out of all the assistants, even though he had been determined at the start of the week not to like anyone at all. 

“You’re good, you know?” Shiro says to him. “Have you ever even skated before this week?”

Keith refuses to blush at that and instead looks away pointedly. 

“I’m not making fun,” Shiro says, this time gentler and lower, just for Keith. “You’re really a natural on the ice. Fast. With some practice and time, you could smoke anyone here.”

Keith snorts doubtfully, but doesn’t skate away to join his fellow campers.

“You need to work on your stick-handling if you want to really play though.”

“Play?”

Shiro raises his eyebrows at Keith as if the answer is obvious. 

“You’re from Tucson, right? They’ve got plenty of teams. I should know, I play on one.”

Keith crosses his arms. 

“You’re not on the Roadrunners,” Keith says. The Roadrunners are the AHL affiliate in town and Shiro, despite his tall frame, is too young to play for them. Keith had looked it up before - you had to be 18. 

Shiro grins slyly at him.

“Thought you didn’t follow hockey much,” he says. Keith doesn’t give him the benefit of an answer. Shiro elbows him gently. “I play at the Academy. With the Sundogs. You ever been to a game?”

Keith shook his head. He’d never been to a game, period. If he did go to a game, it probably wouldn’t be to one at the fancy private school across town. He’s pretty sure he would be turned away at the door. It figures that someone like Shiro would play there.

“I can get you tickets sometime,” Shiro says.

“Why?” Keith frowns at him.

Shiro shrugs. 

“Just thought I’d offer.”

  
  


_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


A month after the camp is over, a box, heavy and conspicuous, arrives on the doorstep of Keith’s foster family. The family eyes it with suspicion, but they don’t interfere when they see it’s addressed to Keith. That’s one good thing about this family - they aren’t mean-spirited, just disinterested, overwhelmed. 

It’s from Takashi Shirogane. His name is printed in large block letters that Keith traces over and over again. He tears the flap with Shiro’s name off the box eventually and then tucks it under his mattress next to the bowie knife he’d taken from his childhood home when his father died, leaving him alone. It’s one of the few things he’s managed to keep across the endless parade of homes he’d been in since. Shiro’s name seems similarly precious.

The box is full of used hockey equipment, some of it smelly and worn, but all of it still usable, nice even. There are two pairs of skates, one in Keith’s size and one two sizes larger and pads too. He’d come home from the camp with a single stick and puck - more souvenir than actual game-ready equipment, but Keith had been practicing the drills from camp when no-one was home. At the bottom of the box is a note. It is crumpled around the edges, but still readable. 

 

> _ Keith - I hope you don’t mind, but I thought maybe you could use this until you can get your own. There’s a rink not far from where you live - Garrison Ice Arena. I actually know the rink manager there and he’s willing to work out an arrangement for ice time if you’re okay with helping out around the rink. His name’s Iverson. Just tell him I sent you. - Shiro _

 

Keith doesn’t bother being anything but grateful.

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

 

Shiro is a fixture in Keith’s life after that. He runs endless drills with Keith at the Garrison and plays shinny with him even when he’s dead tired from his own games. Keith knows Shiro’s game schedule better than Shiro because his life revolves around the times when he might have Shiro to himself for a few hours. 

Keith has had older foster brothers before and they had done nothing but annoy him when they tried to take him under their wing. Shiro is nearly four years older than Keith, almost 17 to Keith’s 13, and instead of annoyance, he just feels a vague sense of hero worship when Shiro skates onto the ice. 

Iverson has less of a shine to him, although Shiro likes him. He grudgingly allows Keith at the arena in exchange for a few hours working the skate rental desk a week, all unpaid since Keith isn’t technically old enough to work. When summer comes around again, it surprises Keith when Iverson throws a thick packet of paperwork at him when he’s leaving one night. 

“You fill that out and get your parents to sign it before tomorrow,” Iverson grunts before ducking back into his office. 

Keith looks down at the papers, sure that he’s in trouble for something, but it’s an application for the private high school that Shiro attends. He frowns and walks over to Iverson’s office. Iverson is already clacking away at his computer. 

“They have full scholarships,” Iverson says before Keith can even open his mouth. “You’ll have to go to open try-outs next weekend. Think you can handle that?”

“I…” Keith trails off. 

Iverson looks at him over his glasses.

“You think your parents won’t sign?”

“They’re not my parents.” Keith crosses his arms. 

Iverson sits back in his chair and Keith can hear the exhale from his huge nostrils even though the huge man’s shoulders don’t move. 

“Well, then,” Iverson. “You think your legal guardians appointed by the State of Arizona won’t sign?”

“I can’t go without the scholarship,” Keith dodges.

“Better sharpen up your stick-handling then, kid.”

  
  


_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


Playing on Shiro's line is on an entirely different level than running drills with him. Keith's speed mixed with Shiro's sheer size and skill is a potent combo, regardless of who is on the left wing. It doesn't take long for Coach to see it either and glue them together. It's good. Really good. 

Keith has never played on a real team before, his only games were casual pick-up games at the Garrison or on the street, but he takes to it quickly. Shiro complains that Keith picks up skills faster than anyone he’s ever met, but never seems resentful about it, only proud like Keith is his star pupil that he can’t wait for everyone else to discover. 

Adam Waller, who Keith bumps down to the second line, throws him some nasty looks that Keith mostly attributes to hockey until one day he comes early to the locker room and sees Adam and Shiro together, their faces too close and skin flushed. 

"I know you saw us earlier," Shiro says to him after practice when they're heading out together. "Adam and me."

Shiro must interpret Keith's flinch as something other than what it really is, because he tugs on Keith's arm to get him to stop.

"Can I explain?"

Keith shrugs.

"I didn't actually see anything," Keith says, feeling shifty as he looks around them but the arena parking lot is empty.

"Well, then, can I tell you something?" Shiro doesn't usually let his frustration leak through and it snaps Keith's head up. Shiro exhales heavily and puts both hands on his head. "Look, Keith, this needs to stay between us and I've been planning on telling you for a while now. You should know…I'm gay."

Keith crosses his arms and gives Shiro a flat look.

"Okay?" Keith says. 

Shiro sighs, like Keith is being difficult, but it's actually just that Keith isn't sure this warrants some huge confession. He opens his mouth to say so, but Shiro starts speaking again first.

"Adam and I are dating," Shiro says. "Have been for a while."

That hits Keith strangely. He steps back, dropping the eye contact he'd made with Shiro.

"Okay," he says again, not a question this time, quieter. 

"Okay?" Shiro asks. There's a crack in his voice that Keith’s never heard before, a thread of doubt. 

"Why wouldn't it be?"

Shiro's exhale is heavy and loud. 

"Keith," Shiro says and then seeming to change his mind, he shakes his head and claps a hand on Keith's shoulder instead, squeezing it a little too hard. When Keith looks up, the doubt is gone from Shiro’s eyes, as if it was never there at all. 

Keith raises his eyebrows and shakes off Shiro's arm by shoving him with a playfulness that he doesn't quite feel. 

"You still going to let me smoke you at pull-ups tomorrow morning?" Keith asks.

Shiro laughs and the sound is sharp and cleansing.

"In your dreams." Shiro ruffles Keith's hair. "You gotta get some muscle mass on you before you start talking smack like that."

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


Keith doesn’t belong at The Academy. His uniform - another hand-me-down from Shiro that is too big on him - sticks out among the new, neatly ironed uniforms of the other freshman and it’s like they can smell it on him. The only reason he stays is because he gets to play hockey and even better, can finally play with Shiro. 

It’s his first time on a real team and it’s a struggle from day one. He just doesn’t like most of the guys on the team and the rest are...well. Academy kids. 

“You have to at least try to be a friend to them.” Shiro is patient as always as Keith sulks after a particularly bad practice where one his linemates, Griffin, seemed determined to highlight every time Keith missed a pass. “Most of them have known each other for a long time. You’re an unknown. It will take some time for them to trust you.”

Keith scowls at Shiro. Shiro lightly bumps his shoulder. 

“You wanna go for a ride?”

“Only if you let me drive.”

“Okay, but only after we’re out of the city. Don’t want to get in trouble for enabling a minor.”

“You  _ just  _ turned 18.” Keith snorts, but Shiro only grins back at him.

They’re sitting at a lookout point, Shiro’s huge motorcycle behind them, when Shiro breaks the news. 

“There’s going to be a scout from Kerberos University at the game Friday,” he says.

Keith slides his eyes over to Shiro and inspects his deceptively calm face. It’s only Shiro’s twisting hands that give him away. The medical alert band that Shiro wears around his wrist is spinning as Shiro's fingers tug at it anxiously.

“Third time this year,” Keith says mildly.

“Yeah.” Shiro exhales. 

“Adam wants me to stay closer to home,” Shiro says quietly. It’s rare for him to volunteer information about his boyfriend. Maybe because it makes Keith obviously prickly. Adam had always been there, on the edge of Keith’s awareness from the beginning, but they had never warmed up to each other. Keith thinks Adam is the most boring person alive and Adam seems to think Keith is a waste of Shiro’s time. 

“Of course he does,” Keith says with venom.

Shiro sighs. 

“If they offer me a roster spot, I’m going,” he says. His hands aren’t fidgeting anymore, clenched into fists. 

“You have to,” Keith agrees.

“It’s a long ways away,” Shiro says. They haven’t talked about this before so openly and Keith frowns.

“It doesn’t matter,” Keith says, fierce. “This is your chance to get out of Arizona and get noticed finally. This is what you’ve been working for.”

Shiro squeezes the back of Keith’s neck. His hand stays there.

“Thank you, Keith,” he says. 

Keith blinks at him.

“For what?”

Shiro smiles and squeezes him again before letting go and standing up in one swift motion. He offers a hand to Keith to help him up.

“You’ve always believed in me,” Shiro says. “So, just, thank you.”

“You believed in me first.”

Shiro laughs, surprised, and then pulls Keith into a hug.

“Careful,” Shiro says. “That almost sounded sappy.”

Keith huffs at him, but hugs back.

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


The day Shiro is set to leave for Kerberos University is quiet at the Garrison rink. It’s late in the summer, a lull between the endless camps the rink hosts and the more routine schedule of the school year. It will be Keith’s sophomore year soon and his first year without Shiro there to act as a buffer for the rest of the team. Keith feels like his stomach is a constant knot of anxiety - he’s not sure what the Academy will be like without Shiro.

Shiro arrives unexpectedly at the rink that afternoon as Keith is wrapping up his shift. He isn’t dressed to skate and doesn’t have a bag with him, so Keith follows him out to the parking lot where they sit in Shiro’s car, listening to the low rumble of music from his radio. 

“Adam broke up with me,” Shiro says after a long time. 

“What?” Keith’s head snaps to Shiro. Shiro’s face is wiped free of emotion - a dead giveaway that he’s upset.

“I think I knew it was coming,” Shiro says. “He’s been building up to it for a while.”

“He can’t break up with you for taking a roster spot that you  _ earned _ ,” Keith says. 

“Keith.” It’s a warning, but Keith doesn’t heed it.

“He can’t think that he’s more important than hockey. This is your chance to prove that those fucking dipshits made a mistake when they didn’t draft you this year.”

“ _ Keith _ .”

Keith snaps his mouth shut.

“It’s okay,” Shiro says. “It’s his choice.”

“It’s a bad fucking choice,” Keith spits. 

Shiro smiles at him and ruffles his hair. They’re both quiet after that, sitting together in the empty parking lot of the arena.

“You’re going to do great this year,” Shiro says after a long time.

Keith is hit with a wave of emotion that he’s been trying to suppress since Shiro’s graduation in May. He presses his lips together to keep anything from coming out. 

“Don’t get into any fights, okay?” Shiro says. “I won’t be there to bail you out this year.”

The sideways smile Shiro throws his way earns him a punch in the arm.

“I can handle myself.”

“I know,” Shiro says. “I meant more in the sense of endearing yourself to your other teammates.”

Keith snorts.

“Keith,” Shiro sighs. “You have to make an effort if you want to keep playing. Team is important, not just individual skill.”

"I know that."

Shiro hums neutrally. 

"Just keep your head down," he says after a while. "You don't have to be their best friend or hang out with them outside of practice. Keep playing well and keep up your drills and it'll be time for college before you know it."

"You know," Keith says. "Before I met you, I never thought college was even a possibility."

Keith doesn't look at Shiro, instead keeps his eyes stubbornly focused on the fading pinks and orange of the desert sky around them. 

"You've been a better friend to me than anyone I've ever met, Shiro," Keith says, almost choking on the words. 

Shiro doesn't say anything, but pulls him into a fierce hug, made awkward by the gear shift between them.

"I always knew you could do this," Shiro whispers. "In a few years, you're going to get into an amazing school and keep playing there and maybe we'll even get to see each other across the face-off dot again. You're going to write your own way, Keith."

Keith clings onto him and doesn't care that the hug has gone on too long because Shiro isn't letting go either. 

"You'll be in the NHL long before I make it to college, old man," Keith says when he finally pulls away. "Two years tops at Kerberos and then, some team is gonna see how much they fucked up and offer you a contract."

"We'll see about that," Shiro says. "Not sure how many NHL teams are looking for a kid with a genetic disease that could come back at any minute."

"They will."

Shiro's arm is still around Keith's shoulder and his fingers gently tussle Keith's hair.

"Thanks, Keith."

  
  


_X_ * _X_ * _X_

 

Keith is no good at being on a team. It was clear before Shiro left, but without Shiro there to help him at least try to pretend, Keith is a disaster. 

He makes it about halfway through his sophomore semester at the Academy before he throws a punch that gets him expelled for good. If only he'd done it while he was on the ice, it might not have mattered as much. He stops answering calls from Shiro. He doesn't re-enroll in the the local high school despite his foster parents trying to drag him there until they finally relent and let him study his way through the GED. He turns 17, high school degree in hand a year earlier than expected, with a meager savings account and a motley collection of hockey gear to his name. His foster parents seem relieved when he announces he’s filed for emancipation, but to Keith’s surprise, they gift him a barely functioning motorbike and a few hundred dollars before he leaves for good. He sells what gear he can and then makes the long transcontinental ride to Philadelphia in time for amateur tryouts for a Juniors team that doesn’t blink twice at his age or GED when he skates circles around everyone else at the tryouts. 

He hasn't played on a team since the Academy kicked him out for punching Griffin's lights out a year and a half ago, but he's still played some pick-up games and filled in on a couple of beer league teams when he could. Iverson had relented in Keith’s last year in Tucson and given him some real hours at the rink so he could at least keep his skates sharp and run drills by himself.

Through some miracle, the Juniors team takes him even though the coach keeps looking at him sideways like he doesn't trust him. Keith does his best to let everything flow off his back. Keeps his head down. Lights it up. He doesn't need to click with his linemates personally here - only a handful even introduce themselves to Keith. They're happy to let him show up and score goals. And he does. 

Halfway through his second season, 19 and finally putting on some bulk , Keith gets offered an AHL contract with the farm team for the Blades. The Blades’ NHL team had been decimated by injuries so their AHL team, jokingly referred to as the “Baby Blades” since they shared a name with their affiliate, is looking to fill the gaps from all the call-ups. Keith doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and takes the one year contract without hesitation.

His first taste of the AHL is bruising, brutal hockey that doesn't suit Keith's speed and agility, but he grits his teeth and just tries to get by. He finishes the season up with the Blades in the AHL. They miss the playoffs, but there's always next year. He doesn’t go back to Juniors, signing on with the Blades for another two years. 

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

 

The year Keith cracks the AHL roster, Shiro wraps up his last of three years at Kerberos University before signing a deal to play NHL hockey - he goes to the Paladins out in California and Keith watches Shiro slip into the first round of the playoffs straight off the back of a successful NCAA championship with composure and ease. He looks huge, even on the TV, towering over the reporters who can't get enough of him. Keith's heart constricts every time he smiles because it's so familiar and now foreign. 

The press love to talk about his miraculous recovery even though Shiro rarely volunteers information about it to them. It's a good story angle. Small-town kid with muscular degenerative disease makes miraculous recovery and becomes a hockey wunderkind. 

They haven't talked in years, but Keith can still recognize the resentment in Shiro's eyes when someone brings it up instead of asking him about hockey. 

The Paladins crash and bang through the first three rounds of the playoffs, leaving a trail of carnage in their wake, and then fight tooth and nail in the final to win the Cup in five games. Shiro gets the game-winning goal and Keith, watching from a deserted bar across the country, his own team long out of contention, watches until the feed cuts out, searching out Shiro's broad, grinning face in the crowd of players swarming the Cup. 

He wonders if he called now if Shiro would answer, if he would even remember the kid he plucked out of misery and gave hockey to before leaving him behind.

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


It's comforting, in a way, that no matter what team he's playing on, hockey is the same. Skating is a constant. The feeling of the puck hitting the tape of his stick sends a predictable buzz through his hands every time. The sound of his teammates jawing off at each other is the white noise he's come to associate with the best times of his life. 

Keith never thought he'd play hockey at this level. He’d barely managed to imagine playing past high school. Every day that he clings to his spot on the AHL roster, he feels like he takes up more space, feels like he belongs there a little more. 

By the start of his first full year up in the AHL, he lets his guard drop a little and even makes tentative friends with a few of the guys on the roster. There's still a lot of bullshit flying around the locker room of the Blades, but unlike the Academy, no one is looking to expel Keith.

The first time Keith gets into a fight, one of the Blades' hulking defensemen, a Finn who can barely string together three words in English pulls him off of the other guy and wags a finger at him jokingly.

"Little one, I fight," Ulaz says. "You score."

"Not little." Keith spits blood onto the ice and Ulaz pats him on the back with a grin. 

"Yes little," he says cheerfully before skating away. 

The next time Keith is provoked on the ice, Ulaz is there dropping his gloves before Keith can even get in a good shove. He's reluctantly grateful for it, but still a little sulky in the locker room later. 

"You buy drinks tonight, yes?" Ulaz says, throwing an arm around Keith's shoulders. 

Keith rolls his eyes, but nods. After that, it's easier. It's not that he's quite friends with any of the Blades, but they seem to like him well enough and that's an improvement over any of his other teams. When they give him an ‘A’ at the end of his second season though, it takes him aback. 

"You don't think you earned it?" Kolivan, the Special Teams Coach asks him when he sees Keith frowning at the new, stark white ‘A’ sewn onto the front of his jersey. They’re alone in the hallway as Keith waits his turn for team headshots. 

"Plenty of other guys on the team," Keith says, keeping his eyes down. 

"True." Kolivan crosses his arms. He's a huge man, beefed up in a way that reminded Keith more of a body builder than any hockey player he'd ever known, but his tactical guidance on the power play was formidable. "Seems to me that a team should put their top-scoring, young talent in positions to succeed though. They're not putting the weight of the world on you, kid, but it'll only help to learn the ropes of being a leader in the locker room now. You're not going to be buried down in this league forever."

Keith frowns. His stomach twists whenever he thinks about the very real possibility of cracking the NHL roster someday soon, but he's still playing second line minutes even if is a fixture on the Blades' power play this year and the coach has been clear he thinks Keith has a lot to learn before he'd suggest him for a call-up.  

Kolivan claps him on the shoulder, grounding him back in the moment.

"You've got a long career ahead of you if you keep working hard, Keith," Kolivan says, his gruff voice uncharacteristically softened. "You've got the speed and skill, now you just have to learn to play for the team and not just yourself."

Normally Keith would bristle at that, but it reminds him of something Shiro had said to him once. It feels like a kick in the gut. He clears his throat and stands up a little taller.

"It's not like I'm not trying," Keith says. 

"I know you are, kid," Kolivan says. "That's why I recommended they give you the A."

"You…you did?" 

Kolivan nods, a small smirk curling around his lips. 

"Don't make me look bad," Kolivan warns before walking away and leaving Keith alone with his thoughts. 

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


Keith is called up to the big show three weeks ahead of playoffs that year. He's slotted into the second line with two veterans who barely blink at the new kid on their right wing. He scores on his first shift on the ice and doesn't get sent back down. Before the season is over, he's scored four more times and the veterans smile when they see him come in now, offering him fist bumps and back pats that make Keith feel anxious but happy all at the same time. 

They clinch their playoff spot early, but their opponent, the second wild card out West doesn't get decided until there are two games left in the season. It's the Paladins, battered but still alive from their Cup victory the year before, who emerge as their match-up and Keith watches hours of tape of Shiro's slick skating, trying to fight off the clench in his stomach whenever he catches sight of Shiro's broad, friendly face under the half-visor. He hasn't seen Shiro in person in nearly four years now - not since Shiro left for university - and it's terrifying to think that the first time they might meet up now is across the ice from each other in round one of the playoffs. 

  
  


_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


Shiro doesn't wait until Game 1 to find Keith. 

His presence in the hallway of the dressing room the day before Game 1 is a minor seismic event, even though the Paladins had had the ice before them that morning.  Shiro is wearing the ‘C’ for the Paladins this year and is hard to miss with his towering frame and shock of dark hair flopping into his face. He looks a little abashed as some of the younger players gape openly at him and chats with some of the older guys as they filter by him. 

Keith drags his feet through changing and showering, a hot coal of dread in his stomach. Shiro quirks an eyebrow at him when he finally comes out and Keith does his best not to scowl back because he know Shiro doesn't deserve it. He's not sure what his face does instead. 

"What are you doing here?" Keith crosses his arms.

Shiro frowns and leans against the wall, giving him an assessing look. 

"Guess I was hoping to catch up with an old friend."

Keith looks over his shoulder instinctively, expecting to see someone else there that Shiro knows from his new life. 

"Keith," Shiro says softly. "Can I take you to lunch?"

Keith swallows and looks him in the eye.

"You sure?"

Shiro doesn't answer but unfolds himself from the wall and nods towards the arena's back doors. Keith reluctantly heads out to the small parking lot that the players used. Shiro follows him back, nodding and shaking hands with a few of the rink staff who seem even more starstruck than the other players. He even signs a hand towel for one of them while Keith waits, giving Keith a small smile of apology which he returns with a shrug. 

They make it out to the parking lot and Keith doesn't have to ask which one is Shiro's rental car. The low-slung matte black sports car quietly announces itself. 

"Nice," Keith says. "Half expected it to be a bike though."

Shiro's lips quirk. When they were still kids, Shiro had often waxed poetic about getting a motorcycle.

"My insurance is already high enough," he says. 

"Old man."

Shiro shoves him lightly and it's so painfully reminiscent of when they were just kids on the ice together that Keith's heart squeezes. 

"Can I drive?" Keith asks.

"In your dreams." Shiro laughs and opens the driver's side door. Keith watches Shiro fold himself into the comically low car before getting in himself. It feels a little out of some kind of dream, to have Shiro back so suddenly. Shiro peels out of the parking lot and is speeding along the street in no time flat. Keith wants to stick his head out the window like he's a dog to feel the wind bite into his skin, but he sits still instead, just watching the landscape pass them by.

"I'd be lying if I said I haven't been paying attention to you," Shiro says after a moment of just the tires hitting pavement to fill the silence between them. 

It catches Keith by surprise. "What?"

Shiro tips him a smile. He has one hand casually slung over his steering wheel and the other engulfs the tiny gear shaft as he maneuvers in and out of traffic.

"Iverson knew about where you were headed and I kept an eye on your HockeyDB page. Didn't take that long to track you down after the Blades put you on their roster."

"That was three years ago."

Shiro shrugs. 

"Went to a game once while you were still down in the A," Shiro says. "You were the best player on the ice, easy."

Keith hands are shaking so obviously that he clenches them into fists.

"You were at a game?" He hates how small his voice sounds. 

"I figured you didn't want to see me," Shiro says. "What with the avoiding my calls and leaving town without a forwarding address."

"But you still came," Keith says.

"I care about you, Keith," Shiro says. "I always have. Even if you don't always want to believe it." 

Keith is quiet. He swallows hard. 

"Sorry," he says. "About the avoiding you thing. It wasn't your fault."

"I get it," Shiro says. He's quiet after that.

They go to lunch at a fancy salad place not too far from the rink - Keith has never been before, but he knows some his teammates like it. He doesn't ask how Shiro found it since he lives across the country. Shiro orders a monstrously large kale salad with extra chicken and Keith settles for something a little more palatable.

They're almost finished by the time Keith cracks. 

"I got kicked out for punching James Griffin," he says. 

Shiro barely pauses as he shovels food into his mouth. 

"I know," Shiro says. 

"You told me to keep my cool and I fucked it up as soon as you were gone," Keith continues. 

"Keith." Shiro moves his empty salad bowl aside and fixes Keith with an intense look. "I think you did the best you could in a bad situation. You still got out and you're playing in the NHL with no support system. That's amazing."

Keith frowns at him.

"I was supposed to go to college, use hockey to get a degree," he says. 

Shiro sighs.

"Okay, so that door closed," Shiro says. "You found a way to open another one, though."

Keith crosses his arms and Shiro looks exasperated for a minute before cracking a smile.

"You really haven't changed much," Shiro says, but his voice is soft around the edges. 

"I have," Keith says. "I'm nearly 21."

Shiro whistles. 

"So old," he says. "Very mature, I can tell."

"Fuck you," Keith says.

Shiro laughs so loudly that a few of the other customers in the small restaurant look over to them. 

"You gonna smoke my ass tomorrow night?" Shiro asks.

"Absolutely," Keith says, not missing a beat. "You won't know what happened."

"We'll see about that."

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


The playoffs take off like a racehorse out of the gate and Keith barely has a chance to breathe before Game 6 goes to the Paladins and the series is even at 3-3. He doesn't see Shiro for any more lunches but he has Shiro's new number entered into his phone and every time he thinks of it, his stomach twists in some strange blend of comfort and anxiety. He wishes more than anything that they weren't actually playing Shiro's team in the playoffs so it wouldn't be so unheard of for them to have some time together, but Keith knows there's time for that later when the playoffs are done. 

Game 7 is on home ice for Keith. 

The arena is louder than any game he’s ever played before the puck even drops. There are flashing lights and swirls of color in the crowd that blend into a cacophonous mess of stimulation. One of Keith’s linemates asks him if he’s going to be sick and when Keith shakes his head furiously, he hands Keith smelling salts with a laugh and a thump on his back. The acrid smell is enough to snap Keith out of his momentary daze and he focuses on breathing through the anthem. 

The Paladins break the scoresheet open only two minutes into the game and after that, it’s a mad dash from end-to-end, constantly cycling. Keith is more exhausted than he’s ever felt in his life by the time he scores a fluke goal late in the second period that deflects off the goalie’s helmet and in. 

The third period starts ugly, with a fight breaking out before the linesman even drops the puck to start play. The hits are harder, vicious even, and Keith feels like he’s skating for his life every time he hits the ice. It’s still tied 1-1. 

It’s a bad change that gives Keith a breakaway chance and he flies down the ice, his shot on goal just missing the tiny hole and pinging off the crossboard. Before he can lunge for the rebound, the rest of the players on ice have caught up to him and come slamming into the boards. Keith takes a heavy hit and is just shaking it off when he hears a terrible crunch, then howl of agony from somewhere behind him. Play is whistled dead a moment later and Keith turns to see blood sprayed across the ice and Shiro somehow at the center of it all, rolling in agony as several players tower over him.

For a sick, awful moment when Keith takes in the amount of blood, he thinks a skate has caught Shiro in the neck, but on second glance, the blood is coming from his arm, dripping down onto the ice in slow, dark red drops from a tear in Shiro’s jersey. He tries to skate over, but someone grabs the back of his jersey and doesn't let go. The Paladins’ trainer runs onto the ice. 

Everything happens in slow motion after that. 

 


	2. open ice hit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith boards a plane three days after the Blades are knocked out of Round Two.

 The Blades make it through the first round by the skin of their teeth when Ulaz scores a buzzer beating goal after Shiro is stretchered off the ice. Keith is distracted and sloppy through the second round, but the frustration simmering under his skin has little to do with the game and everything to do with Shiro. Shiro had been packed up by his own team and flown home for an MRI that confirmed a multiple compound fracture and nerve damage in his arm. Keith, stuck playing for his life in the playoffs, can barely manage to keep his mind on hockey. He knows it doesn’t go unnoticed by his team, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Keith boards a plane three days after the Blades are knocked out of Round Two. He takes a cab from LAX to the address Shiro gave him before the series started when he’d invited him out for part of the summer. It costs a small fortune and takes twice as long as expected, but eventually the cab drops him off in the wide driveway of fairly modest house, set far back on a lot landscaped with cactus and rocks. Keith grabs his bags from the trunk and trudges up to the door.

It takes a long minute for Shiro to answer it after Keith rings the bell.

"I wasn't sure if you were actually coming," Shiro says instead of a hello, but he's smiling. His arm is in a complex sling that looks annoying as hell and Keith frowns at it.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Keith asks. He walks in when Shiro steps aside and follows him down the hall to a fairly sparse bedroom where he dumps his bags. "What's the verdict?"

Shiro had had his second surgery only days before and had been tight-lipped about it even when Keith was finally out of the playoffs for good and sent him proof of the plane ticket he'd bought for L.A.

Shiro presses his lips together and nods his head down the hallway. Keith follows him to the living room where Shiro sinks into a waiting nest of blankets on the couch and sits down next to him. He takes off the hat he's been wearing to hide his wild plane hair and ruffles it a bit in nervous anticipation.

"It's going to be a long time," Shiro says. The words are careful, almost sanitized.

"A long time," Keith echoes. "Like what, 6 months?"

"I…I'm not sure you want all the gory details, Keith."

"Tell me."

Shiro sighs heavily. He's tired - Keith can tell by the huge bags under his eyes, but also by the way his normally glowing skin is almost ashen and dull. There's not much besides a few boxes of take-out to prove he's been eating and the state of the couch suggests he might have been sleeping there too.

"It's more than just some broken bones," Shiro says. "The skate blade…it caught some tendons. There’s a lot of damage."

Keith is quiet. He sits forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and studying Shiro.

Shiro clears his throat.

"They're not sure if I'll regain full range of motion again."

Keith hisses through his teeth, a long, slow deflation.

"Fuck," Keith says.

"Yeah." Shiro sighs. "Fuck."

"What can I do?"

Shiro gives him a strange smile.

"Keith," he says and it's gentle but firm. "You don't need to do anything. I have plenty of doctors and trainers telling me what to do."

Keith slaps his hands down on his legs.

"No!" He takes a deep breath and clenches his hands into fists. "Sorry, I just…I'm here, Shiro. I want to help."

"You have your own life, Keith," Shiro says. "You can't just spend the whole summer here. You've got training to do and I'm sure plenty of other stuff to keep you busy. You don't need to be my nursemaid."

"I —" Keith says.

"You only have another year left on your contract," Shiro interrupts. "You need to play your best hockey next year, give them a reason to sign you early and high."

"I don't care about that," Keith snaps.

"You should," Shiro says. "What does your agent say?"

Keith swallows and looks away from Shiro's earnest gaze.

"I don't have one."

"What?" Shiro seems genuinely shocked. Keith feels the heat on his collar and tries to rub it away.

"I don't have an agent, okay," Keith says. "I just signed what they gave me."

" _Keith._ "

"No one was going to want to represent some no-name, undrafted orphan from Arizona," Keith says. He crosses his arms defensively.

"That might have been true when you were in Juniors, but Jesus, Keith, you just finished your season up in the NHL," Shiro says. "You need an agent."

Keith knows he's sulking, but doesn't respond. Instead, he stands and heads towards the kitchen that he can see peeking out from behind the corner, even though Shiro hadn't actually given him a tour of the house.

"I can make dinner," Keith says.

"We can just order something," Shiro sighs.

Keith doesn't bother protesting, just yanks open the fridge to take stock but it's empty of everything except protein shakes and some leftovers. He frowns and then opens the pantry and a few cabinets to find them similarly bare, only a few cans and other staples tucked into the corner.

"What the fuck, Shiro?" Keith grumbles, mostly to himself. He shuts the pantry door and jumps when Shiro is right there, towering over him and smiling sheepishly at him.

"Sorry," he says. "I don't do much cooking and I was waiting to put the order in for my normal meal service until I knew what you would want. We can just order in."

Keith crosses his arms again.

"Meal service?" he asks.

Shiro shrugs.

"I gave up cooking after I broke the fire alarm from setting it off so much back in college," he says. "This is easier and is actually edible."

Keith squints at him. Shiro opens one of the drawers and pulls out a folded menu.

"Here, pick stuff out for the week and I'll handle dinner. There's a nice cafe not far from here that does great chicken piccata. I was going to take you there tomorrow anyways."

Keith takes the menu reluctantly and pretends to read it while listening to Shiro order what sounds like a feast on a quiet phone call. When he hangs up a few minutes later, he leans against the counter and raises his eyebrows at Keith.

"I'm staying as long as you let me," Keith says. The menu crumples in his hand from the near death grip he has on it. "Someone needs to help. You can't even cook."

Shiro's face contorts with a laugh he's clearly unwilling to actually let surface.

"I don't think the level of cooking that happens in this house is actually going to change just because my arm is garbage now," he says.

Keith frowns at him and Shiro taps his fingers on the counter.

"If you stay," he says. "You have to call my agent tomorrow and make an appointment with him to go over your contract situation."

Keith snorts.

" _Your_ agent is not going to want to talk to me," Keith says.

"I know a group of guys who are staying for most of the summer to train," Shiro continues, not even acknowledging Keith. "I can get you in with their group."

Keith is quiet for a minute. "You really think some Paladins are going to be okay with me crashing their training group?" he asks.

"They're good guys," Shiro says. "You might even like them."

Keith scowls at him and Shiro does laugh this time.

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  


Keith wakes up from his post-workout nap on the couch with a start when he hears the back door open and Shiro come in. His eyes fall shut again when Shiro makes his way right to the kitchen and starts shuffling around in there. They don't open again until Keith hears the humming coming from the kitchen which is decidedly not Shiro. He listens for a minute, frozen on the couch, to make sure, but there's no way Shiro could carry a tune for that long.

Keith gets up quietly from the couch and pads to the kitchen in nothing but his socks. The huge, muscle-bound man singing to himself in the kitchen is definitely not what he expected. He watches, unnoticed by the man, for a few minutes as the guy carefully moves things around Shiro's fridge, opening a few containers to sniff at them and then throwing them into a garbage bin that he'd pulled over from the pantry.

Keith finally clears his throat and the strange man jumps nearly a foot in the air.

"Jesus, Shiro, put a bell on —" The man says, turning around and stopping when he sees Keith. He gives Keith a clear once-over, although nothing about it is particularly unfriendly.  "Oh..uh, you're not Shiro, huh?"

Keith blinks at the guy who is still half inside of Shiro's fridge and crosses his arms.

"And you are?" he asks.

"Oh my God, are you the secret boyfriend?" the guy asks, his face breaking into a wide grin.

Keith scowls at him, but the guys still looks delighted.

"No," Keith says flatly. "I'm Shiro's friend. I'm staying with him while he's in recovery."

The guy squints at him and finally shuts the fridge. He looks at Keith a moment longer before snapping his fingers and pointing at Keith.

"No way, dude," he says. "Keith Kogane, right? Geez, you're tiny without your pads. I didn't know you and Shiro were buds."

Keith doesn't relax even as the guy holds out one huge, meaty hand to him.

"Hunk Garret," he says even though Keith doesn't shake his hand. "I'm the back-up goalie for the Paladins. You didn't see me much during our series cause Matty was on fucking fire, but hey, I remember you. You're fucking fast, dude."

"Uh," Keith says. He finally, reluctantly shakes Hunk's hand, trying to place his broad, friendly face, but coming up blank. Most goaltenders were beanpoles of sinewy muscle, but Hunk more resembled a solid wall of mass which Keith guesses might be an advantage, especially with the pads on. "Nice to meet you?"

"Shiro didn't tell me he had a friend staying with him for the summer," Hunk says. He's turned back to the huge freezer bag at his feet and opens up the fridge again. "Although makes sense now, why he ordered so much from Romelle this week. Geez."

"Romelle?"

"Yeah," Hunk says, gesturing to the tin foil container in his hand. "That's my girlfriend. She usually does all this stuff - it's her business, you know? But in the summer, sometimes I take some deliveries when I can. Make up for all the time I'm away during the season, you know?"

"Uh, yeah."

"How long are you here, man? You training down here for the summer?"

Before Keith can answer, Shiro appears from the door leading out to the garage, grinning at Hunk.

"He's joining up with Lance," Shiro says. "I called in a favor from Coran so he'd take Keith in my place since I'm not going to be up for much except PT for a few months."

"Shirooo," Hunk says. "Don't talk like that, it depresses the hell out of me, man."

Hunk slaps Keith on the back and smiles sunnily at him despite the words.

"You found us a replacement friend though? That's cute."

Shiro snorts.

"Good luck cracking him," Shiro says, tipping a smile to Keith. Keith scowls at him and Hunk laughs as if something's particularly funny about the whole thing. "Romelle got you running deliveries all summer?"

"Yeah," Hunk says and Keith slips out of the goalie's grip as he and Shiro exchange small talk. He hears Hunk leave a few minutes later and Shiro comes in, flopping onto the couch and then visibly wincing as it jostles his arm.

"Anything new?" Keith asks. Shiro had been at physio all morning and he looks tired as he looks over to where Keith is curled into the reading chair.

"No, just more of the same," Shiro sighs.

Keith hums in disappointment.

"Sorry about Hunk ambushing you," Shiro says. "I thought he was gonna be here after I got home."

"S'okay," Keith mumbles. He reaches for the remote and scrolls through channels while Shiro resettles with his iPad. Keith finally decides on a baseball game that is half-over that he watches with little interest.

"Are you dating someone?" Keith asks when the game is over and he's back to channel-surfing. He doesn't mean it to be so accusatory and immediately backtracks, lowering the remote. "Sorry, I mean, it's fine if you are - it's just your teammate was confused today?"

"Oh?" Shiro asks, barely looking up from his iPad.

"He thought I was your boyfriend."

Shiro snorts.

"Sorry," he says, still buried in whatever he's doing on his iPad. "Ever since I told them I was gay two seasons ago, they have a theory I'm hiding a secret boyfriend in a closet somewhere."

"Oh."

Shiro looks up at his flat tone and raises an eyebrow.

"Did it bother you?" Shiro asks.

Keith can feel his blush and he forces a small, choked laugh.

"No, of course not," he says. "I was just wondering if you were…you know, seeing someone. I thought maybe I was in the way or something."

Shiro's eyebrows remain raised and he's smiling at Keith, his eyes dancing with laughter.

“You mean, you, Keith Kogane, who announced you were staying with me all summer after not talking to me for years are suddenly worried about getting in the way of my love life?” Shiro asks.

Keith sputters, but has no rebuttal. Shiro smirks at him before breaking into a toothy smile and kicking Keith’s shin playfully.

"Well, I'm not dating anyone," Shiro says. "Although if you want to pretend to get Hunk and Lance off my back about it, I'm game."

Keith throws the nearest pillow at him and the iPad clutters to the floor when Shiro tries to deflect it with his only working arm. They're both laughing by the time Shiro manages to fish the pillow off the floor and throw it back at Keith, missing by several feet.

"Alright, alright, back to Craigslist fake boyfriends for me, then," Shiro says, still teasing.

"Please," Keith says. "Like you have any trouble."

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  


"Well, well, well, Keith Kogane, we meet again," a tall, unfamiliar guy with a mop of brown hair says as Keith joins him in the weight room of the tiny, private box gym Shiro had given him directions to. Keith frowns at him, but doesn't recognize the guy, although he's clearly a player by his build and attitude. He looks younger than Keith but is tall and lean. Keith can see the muscle tone hiding on his frame easily.

"Do I know you?" Keith asks.

The guy scowls.

"Lance McClain," he says as if Keith should know it already. Keith squints at him, but the name doesn't ring any bells. "I'm on the Paladins?"

Keith tries to place him, but shrugs after a minute.

"Sorry, don't remember you."

The guy — Lance — sputters at him.

"The NHL Network did a whole segment about how similar our skating styles are," Lance says. "Lance McClain and Keith Kogane - unexpected black aces that are heating up the rink!"

Keith makes a doubtful face as a dumps his bag into an empty chair and pulls out his trainers.

"Uh, okay," Keith says as he pulls his shoes on and tightens the laces. "I guess I missed it?"

Lance sputters again but doesn't have a chance to do much more than that when Coran, a tall man with a ridiculous poof of ginger hair and mustache that looks straight out of the 70s, swans into the room. Keith stands up quickly, hoping they could just get started and forget all the weird small talk. He really didn't need to get to know Shiro's teammates like this. Maybe it wasn't too late to request private sessions with Coran, even though Shiro would probably be disappointed in Keith for that since he insists that training with other players is both more fun and more helpful since you have someone to compete against.

"Keith!" Coran says, throwing his arms out effusively. "So good to see you in person after our chat on Monday. When Shiro told me he was going to be sidelined this summer, I was heartbroken, but he assures me that you will perform admirably."

Keith nods because he’s unsure what to say to that, but Coran just keeps smiling.

He's only able to avoid more small talk because it turns out that once Lance and Coran really get going together, there's not much room edgewise anyways. Keith keeps to himself for most of the day, except when asked a direct question which he tries to answer in as few words as possible. For the first time, he's actually kind of glad Shiro isn't there because Shiro would have definitely dragged him into the conversation whether he wanted to or not.

Despite the constant stream of chatter though, Coran really know his stuff and by the end of day one, Keith feels vaguely jello-like. Every muscle in his body is screaming by the time he drags himself home. Shiro, the asshole, just laughs when Keith whines about maybe not being able to stand for a shower, but he does make sure Keith has a sandwich to eat when he's out of the shower so it evens out.

Lance is just as annoying the second day as he is the first, but after about a week of listening to everything about Lance's life in excruciating detail, Keith is able to relegate him to almost background noise as they train together and he has to grudgingly admit to Shiro that it is actually nice to have a fellow player to train with because it makes every set more intense, if only because Keith winning usually meant Lance shut up for awhile.

  


_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  
  


Aside from jokingly asking Keith to pretend to be his boyfriend to trick his teammates, Shiro hasn't brought up any mention of dating or romance in their conversations. Questions burn at the edges of Keith's consciousness, but he refuses to ask them, knowing how uncomfortable he would be answering them for himself. Shiro is as open and welcoming as ever, picking up their friendship as if Keith had never abruptly severed contact, and Keith doesn't want to do anything to jeopardize that.

That's why it surprises him when Shiro does finally bring it up, weeks into the summer.

"Have you been dating much?" he asks one night as they preside over a spread of sushi in the living room.

Keith looks up from his now-habitual spot on the couch opposite of Shiro.

"What?" Keith asks dumbly.

Shiro smiles at him.

"Dating?" he repeats.

"Uh," Keith says and then, blanking on anything to say further, he shrugs.

"Not at all?"

"Why?" Keith puts down his chopsticks and frowns at Shiro.

"Just asking," Shiro says. He pops another roll in his mouth while looking at Keith like he's trying to figure him out. "Have you just not met a girl you're interested in?"

Keith clears his throat and looks away. Shiro lets the question settle between them, obviously willing to wait Keith out for the answer.

"I'm just…not really interested period?" Keith stumbles on his words. He's not sure he's ever tried to put his total disinterest in sex into words before and these words seem wrong. "I mean…I just…I don't know. Maybe I'm just not interested in the way everyone else is?"

It's not that Keith has never wanted sex; it's mostly that he doesn't really get the appeal most of the time. He's watched his teammates hook up with random women for years without any interest of dipping his toes in. He'd kissed a woman once when he was still in the AHL and it had been so underwhelming and embarrassing that he's never had the desire to repeat the experience. He's never given it too much thought beyond that —  less to distract him from hockey.

"Sorry, that sounds stupid," Keith says quietly after Shiro doesn't reply. He risks a look at Shiro and Shiro has put away his chopsticks and is looking thoughtful.

"No, it's not stupid," Shiro says. "It doesn't sound stupid at all."

Keith bites down on his lip hard.

"I kissed this woman once," Keith admits. "But I…just didn't get it? The other guys all go crazy if a woman so much as looks at them. I just thought maybe it was another thing that I wasn't good at."

"Good at kissing?"

"No. Just — you know."

Shiro is looking at him with that same thoughtful expression as before and Keith looks away, uncomfortable under his gaze.

"Have you…considered alternative theories?" Shiro finally asks, sounding hesitant.

Keith exhales through his nose. "Like what?" he asks, sharper than necessary.

Shiro shrugs and leans back on the couch.

"There's a whole spectrum out there to explore, Keith," Shiro says. "You don't have to stay in a box you don't like."

"What if I don't like any of the boxes?"

Shiro taps his fingers against the couch.

"Well, I think that's okay too," he answers gently.

Keith's mouth twists unhappily. He sits with Shiro for a moment longer before grabbing his plate and Shiro's empty plate and taking them to the kitchen to escape the conversation. Shiro doesn't follow him, clearly reading his desire for space and Keith forgoes the dishwasher so he can scrub needlessly at the plates. When that doesn't work, he walks out the back door and into the oppressive warmth of summer, taking off down the street without direction just for something to do.

When he gets back nearly an hour later, the leftover sushi is neatly packed away in the fridge and the dishes are back in the cupboard. Shiro has retreated to his bedroom, but left a sticky note on Keith's door reading "That deep space movie tomorrow at 6:30?" Keith crumples the note and throws it in the bin, but texts a single thumbs up emoji to Shiro even though he's only a few steps away in his own room.

Shiro texts back with a rocket.

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


Keith hits the mat hard when the timer announces the end of his set and he lays there, breathing heavily in a pool of his own sweat. He adjusts the sweatband on his forehead and accepts the bottle of Gatorade that Lance rolls to him, but doesn't have the energy to sit up so he can drink it.

"I think I'm dead," Lance groans from where he's propped up against the wall.

Keith grunts in agreement.

"That's no way to be, McClain!" Coran says cheerfully, hands on his hips as he grins down at them. "You have two more sets."

Lance makes a gurgling sound of despair that Keith wants to echo but instead Keith just rolls to his side and slowly pulls himself up so he can swallow down a few gulps of Gatorade.

Keith can't deny that Coran's methods got results - he'd put on more muscle this summer than he ever had before — but at what cost? The cheerful man's demeanor had done him no favors in Keith's book at first, but unfortunately, he really did grow on you, just as Shiro had promised.

"Oh, Coran, are we early?" an unfamiliar voice calls over the music.

Coran's face lights up as a tall woman with silvery blonde hair walks in, a gym bag slung over her shoulder.

"Not at all, Princess," he shouts over the music. "These two lazybones are just late."

Coran slams on the timer and Keith groans as it begins to count down to another set. Coran walks away towards the newcomer, who has now been joined by a much shorter woman, while Keith and Lance get set at their stations again. By the time this set is over, Keith is ready to keel over for real and almost weeps when Coran, in a fit of generosity, allows Keith and Lance to take a cool-down lap instead of finishing up their last set. When they get back from taking a very slow walk around the block together, the two women are warming up on the rowing machines in the corner while Coran shelves some of the barbells that they had been using.

"My goddaughter and her teammate," Coran says in explanation. "Don't mean to rush you two out the door, but they needed to come in early today and it slipped my mind."

"No problem, Coran, really," Keith says since Lance seems uncharacteristically speechless as he looks at the women. Keith jabs him hard with his elbow and Lance yelps. "Honestly, I think we were both out of gas anyways."

"Yeah," Lance says, although Keith has the sneaking suspicion he has no idea what he's even agreeing on since usually Lance would have jumped at the chance to prove he's able to go harder and longer than Keith.

Lance is still dreamy by the time they've both showered and Keith squints at him while he gets dressed in his street clothes.

"What's with you?" Keith asks.

"Hmm?"

"Lance," Keith says. "You're being weird."

"Oh," Lance says. "It's just…did you see that girl?"

"Coran's goddaughter?"

"Yeah," Lance says. "She was beautiful, huh?"

"Uh, I guess." Keith hadn't really looked twice at her, to be honest.

Lance's face snaps to Keith and he looks annoyed.

"You don't think she’s pretty?" He asks, as if he's offended on her behalf.

"Um."

"Did Coran mention her name?" Lance continues. "Do you think I can go back in and introduce myself? Are they gonna be around more this summer, did he say?"

"Slow down, Loverboy," Keith says, grabbing Lance by the shoulder and forcibly guiding him to the exit of the small box gym. It was a non-descript building tucked into an industrial park. It's muggy outside, but even the stifling air outside is better than the oppressive steam of the weight room of Coran's gym. Lance doesn't really fight against Keith's guidance, but does throw a few wounded puppy looks back at the weight room where Coran's favorite brand of aggressive synth pop shakes the now shut door. "No matter who she is, I doubt she's gonna want to talk to you while she's training, huh, bud?"

Lance nods, but Keith can tell the words are barely absorbing. Keith sighs. He's so out of his depth here. He wishes he had that goalie's number — he seemed like the type that would probably be good at this sort of thing. Instead Keith pushes Lance towards the sportscar Keith had swiped from Shiro's garage. They had started off the summer coming in separately, but a month in and the knowledge that Lance lived in the same neighborhood as Shiro finally convinced Keith to carpool.

Keith drives most of the way back to Shiro's before he takes an early exit and pulls into the parking lot of a juice shop. Lance frowns at him, but doesn't protest when Keith shrugs at him and gets out. Lance follows him in and they order without really talking. Lance is almost through demolishing his green smoothie when he finally says something.

"You know I didn't think you knew how to do this."

"What? Drink juice?"

"No," Lance says, kicking back in his chair until it tips precariously. "Be a good bro. Or be a bro at all."

Keith grunts. He hunches over his juice and traces patterns into the worn wooden surface of the table.

"Aww, did I embarrass you by pointing out your act of bro-dom?"

Lance slides out of his chair and is by Keith's side pulling him into a gross, over-the-top hug in seconds. He knocks Keith's hat off so he can throughly ruffle Keith's hair and Keith shoves him in retaliation.

"You love me," Lance sniffs dramatically, refusing to cede his hold of Keith. "Just admit it and I'll let you go."

"You're making a scene," Keith says gruffly, still trying to shove his way out of Lance's hug.

"Say we're bros!"

"Lance," Keith says, finally breaking into a laugh. "Get off me!"

"Say it!"

"No!" Keith yells a little too loudly and finally manages to twist free. They're both laughing when Keith spills to the floor. Keith waves apologetically to the staff behind the counter who are giving them skeptical, but thankfully not angry looks. He's guessing if either of them had spilled their juice in the scuffle, the mood might be a little different, but Keith is ultimately the only thing that falls. He gets up and brushes himself off before grabbing both cups and pretending to stalk to the car. "I'm never doing anything nice for you again," he says as he adjusts his snapback onto his head again.

"Yes, you will," Lance says confidently. He throws his long arm around Keith's shoulder. "Because we're bros now."

"Ugh," Keith says.

  


_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  


Lance's stupid crush is the only thing he talks about for basically the rest of the week, but Coran's goddaughter doesn't make another appearance. Coran is indulgent but tight lipped when Lance asks for any new details about her beyond that she plays for the professional women's team based out of New York.

Shiro laughs when Keith complains about it, but is nice enough to let Keith go until he's out of steam on the topic himself. Sometimes when Keith gets home from training, Shiro will be down on his floor mat doing physical therapy exercises to exhaustion, but most of the time, he's bored and restless and can't wait to drag Keith out the door.

"Do you think you can drive a boat?" Shiro asks one day at the end of July before Keith is even fully in the door.

"Uh," Keith says as he pushes his hair back from his face and squints at where Shiro is in the living room. Once his eyes adjusts, he sees that Shiro is swinging a set of keys from his uninjured hand. "Whose boat did you steal?"

"Steal is a strong word," Shiro says. He sits up from where had been lounging back on the couch and grins at Keith. "It's a friend of a friend's."

Keith grabs the keys from him, inspecting them.

"Get changed," Shiro says.

"What? Now?" Keith asks incredulously. "I just busted my ass all morning, no way."

"Yes way," Shiro says. "I have to give the keys back soon."

Keith groans but goes towards his bedroom when Shiro gives him a shove.

"It's gonna be hot as fuck, Shiro."

"I have a cooler of beer."

"Fuck."

Shiro laughs, but he clearly knows he's won as Keith heads to his bedroom and tries not to look longingly at his bed before pulling out the swim trunks and tank he'd been pressured into buying a couple weeks ago after Shiro learned he didn't bring any. ("You can't spend all summer in California and not swim, Keith.")

Instead of pointing them towards one of the marinas like Keith expects, Shiro co-pilots them out towards the mountains that loom to the north of the city.

"Can I see your phone?" Shiro asks as he fiddles with his own to get the music to blare through the speakers.

"For what?"

"GPS," Shiro says. "I forgot my charger."

Keith grumbles, but hands it over at the next red light.

"Where are we going?" Keith finally asks as Shiro directs him onto a winding road that curls up the side of the mountain.

"You'll see," Shiro says. "I don't want to ruin the surprise."

Keith snorts, but keeps his eyes on the road. The heights are dizzying and more often than not, there aren't any guardrails to keep them from plummeting off the side of the mountain. He slows down, but not by much. Shiro seems unbothered, trusting and relaxed in the passenger seat.

Keith's phone buzzes with an incoming call and he frowns at it where it's sitting face up on Shiro's leg.

"Who is it?" he asks Shiro.

"Hmm, Coran?" Shiro says. "Want me to answer?"

"Uh, sure," Keith says. He's not sure why Coran would be calling since they'd seen each other less than an hour ago and would again tomorrow.

"Hey Coran, you're on speakerphone," Shiro says as he holds the phone out towards Keith so he can hear it and drive at the same time. Keith gives him a confused look but shrugs.

"Hey Coran," he says. "What's up?"

"Keith, my boy! Why didn't you mention you wanted to take a long weekend while Lance and myself were chatting up a storm? It's normally a bit of a bugaboo to schedule days off, but tomorrow my goddaughter was hoping I could come to her camp for younguns anyways. I'll have to tell Lance of course, but I imagine he won't be too sore over the day off."

"Uh, day off?" Keith asks. His forehead wrinkles as he tries to understand the stream of words that Coran is throwing at him.

"Yes, yes, always straight to the heart of things with you, isn't it?" Coran laughs. "Consider your request for a long weekend approved, although in the future do try to give me a few more days notice."

"Thanks, Coran," Shiro jumps as Keith continues to gape at the phone in confusion. He ends the call before Keith can fully reboot and smiles sheepishly at Keith when he returns the phone to his lap.

"Surprise?" he says.

"Did you hack into my phone to ask Coran for a vacation day?" Keith asks incredulously. He would pull over the car but there's nothing but narrow road ahead and behind them, so he keeps driving.

"Maybe…" Shiro says. "I thought he would just text back and I could tell you once we got to the lake. It was gonna be a whole thing."

Keith rolls his eyes.

"Do you want me to still act surprised when we get there?" he deadpans.

Shiro elbows him across the console and Keith laughs. He reaches up to push his hair back under the brim of his hat where it's fallen loose and sighs.

"I assume there's somewhere for us to sleep at the end of this road trip then?" Keith asks.

"There is." Shiro grins.

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


Keith had been afraid of sunlight running out before they reached their destination, but he pulls into the pea gravel driveway that Shiro directs him to with the sun hanging low but still strong. The air is cooler up in the mountains, a kind of breeziness that doesn't happen down in the city. The cabin they pull up to is deceptively large, built into the side of the mountain so its multiple stories are hidden from the front view.

"Who owns this place?" Keith asks with a low whistle as Shiro, who has clearly been here before, walks straight down a steep wooden staircase to the matching dock and begins to clumsily untie the canvas on the boat. Keith spends a moment to admire the view - the lake is a kind of shimmering blue that makes it looks like some sort of jewel.

"Matt Holt's family," Shiro says. "His parents are usually up here in the summer, but they're on vacation in Spain right now."

"We're crashing your teammate's parent's house?" Keith laughs. He steps forward to finally help Shiro with the ties to the boat cover. Shiro isn't wearing the sling much anymore but his right arm is still mostly useless, unable to grab and hold with any force and his nerve endings still damaged. Keith isn't sure how bad it really is because Shiro is frustratingly vague when he asks, but some things are obvious enough if he just watches carefully.

"Lance is gonna be pissed about this when he hears," Keith says without an ounce of remorse.

"It's okay I didn't invite him, right?" Shiro asks. "I thought…I don't know, I guess I wanted you to myself."

"More than okay," Keith confirms. "If I had to spend a whole weekend in a single cabin with Lance after a full summer of training, I might actually kill him."

Shiro laughs.

"Besides," Keith says. "You're the only one I would want to do this with anyways."

"Yeah," Shiro says quietly.

Shiro manages to direct Keith through lowering the boat into the water and then getting the boat out of the small dock.

"You know, I'm pretty sure you could do this, even if you are one-handed right now," Keith says.

Shiro grins at him from where he's lounging in the back seat of the small speedboat and throws his sunglasses on with a shrug.

"Yeah, but now you know how to," Shiro says. "I'm teaching."

Keith snorts and points the boat towards open water. There aren't many other boats on the water, so even though the steering is clumsier than a car would be, it's easy to cruise the lake. They're quiet except for the occasional observation about the scenery, soaking in the dying sunlight and drinking beer. By the time they get back to the house, Keith is pleasantly buzzed and thankful for the bumpers that line the stall for the boat as they re-dock.

After they finish re-covering the boat, Shiro flops onto the dock with a satisfied sigh. Keith lowers himself next to Shiro and lays down, looking up at the sky which is a deep, velvet blue with stars just beginning to peek through. Years ago, when they were still just kids, sometimes Shiro would lay in the parking lot of the rink and point out constellations to Keith. He remembers it with biting clarity and glances over at Shiro only to catch him looking back at him instead of the sky.

"I think I only know the constellations because of you," Keith says. He shifts his eyes back to the sky and traces some of the familiar lines in the sky.

"I think it's my favorite part of coming up here," Shiro says. "In the city, you can't see them."

"Sucks," Keith says.

Shiro makes a noise of agreement. The sky gets darker around them and the buzz of insects intensifies, but neither of them get up to move from the small wooden dock.

"Summer's almost over," Shiro says unprompted after a long time.

"Yeah," Keith says. The happy buzz he had been feeling leaves him all at once with the thought of leaving California and Shiro behind for the East Coast again.

"You're going to have a great season," Shiro says. "You're gonna surprise the hell out of people, Keith."

Keith smiles. He wants to somehow grab onto Shiro's words and hold them to his body like a blanket.

"Thanks," he says instead. "Any update on your timeline?"

Shiro lifts his injured arm into the air and tries to close it into a fist but the hand only curls half-way. He sighs heavily and lets it fall back to his side.

"It's getting closer, I think," he says. "But there's no way I'll be ready by pre-season."

"Maybe we can just tape your stick to your glove," Keith muses. "No one has to know."

It startles a laugh out of Shiro and Keith slides him a grin, laughing too.

"I'm sure no one will notice," Keith continues. "Just a little tape and you're good to go."

Shiro wheezes in laughter and rolls up to sit, slapping at Keith with his left hand. Keith pushes him back and they tumble together, nearly falling into the water before Shiro pulls them back from the edge.

"I'll pass that one on to my PT," Shiro says, still laughing.

"I wish I didn't have to leave." It slips out of Keith's mouth before he can stop himself and he looks away, embarrassed. He rubs the back of his neck and swings himself up to standing. He offers a hand back to Shiro and Shiro smiles up at him, grabbing the hand.

"Yeah," Shiro agrees. "Maybe one day we can play together again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i no longer know how long this fic is going to be. just subscribe and come along for the ride, i guess.


	3. tape to tape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One day, you're gonna put it all together, kid," Kolivan says. "And you're gonna be a force of nature when it happens."
> 
> "I already have it together," Keith insists.
> 
> "Alright," Kolivan says, not arguing with Keith, which somehow feels even worse.

Keith fucks up with the media on the first day of training camp when he snarls at a question about his foster days. It makes headlines, even though it’s stupid as hell and Keith gets reamed out in the Social Engagement office by a tired, prim blonde woman named Tara who tells him he doesn’t have the ‘social capital’ to go around telling the reporters invited to camp to fuck off and if he doesn’t like a question, he damn well better learn how to politely deflect in a hurry if he wanted a long career.

Fuck social capital anyways. 

The reporter had no right to ask about he “made it work as a foster kid”. He is here to play hockey, not be a sappy inspirational story for their evening story deadline. 

None of the coaches say anything about it, obviously comfortable to let Tara scold him so long as things on the ice are clicking. And they are. There's no other way of looking at it. He goes on a five game scoring streak right out of the gate that season and then in the sixth game, he doesn't score, but still tallies two assists. 

He likes the Blades well enough - they feel more like a team than any other roster he's ever been on even though he isn't really close to any of them. Ulaz is up this year too, slotting in on the 3rd pair and there is a small group of younger guys - Cordova, Richie, and Taz - that are at least tolerable to be around. The core of the team are aging, almost all of them past their prime years and busy outside of hockey with wives and children so there’s not as much partying as Keith expects. The main social instigator from last year, Robenson, had been traded in the summer and no one had stepped up to fill the void. Keith usually ducks out of drinks anyway, so it suits him just fine. 

The local press decide from that first day that they don’t like him. They begrudgingly allow him some leeway because he can't stop scoring and he’d had a decent playoff run up with the Blades the previous season, but there’s a simmering undercurrent of distaste in every article and comment. Whispers of Keith’s bad attitude and his aloofness spread fast. Keith doesn't care - he's never had the media training that the other guys have had, but he learns quickly how to duck out of questions even if he doesn't always do it with the PR-approved lines. 

He doesn’t fuck up again at least.

He’s still not having a good time of it though. 

The worst day yet is Family Skate -- a media circus of carefully crafted stories and heartwarming dreck. He doesn't have anyone to invite. He hasn't spoken to his foster family since he was emancipated and he gets the feeling that it's mutual even though they were kind enough to him while he was living with them. The other guys' families flood the ice, even the Russian rookie Petrikov, barely old enough to play in the NHL, has his parents. The only other person without even a girlfriend on the ice is Ulaz. 

"Why so grumpy?" Ulaz asks as he skates up beside Keith. Ulaz is grinning at the sleds of children whizzing past them and seems genuinely pleased to be there. "Is fun day."

"Your English sucks," Keith says because he doesn't feel like defending himself. 

"No," Ulaz says, and then with an exaggerated, but convincing American accent, says, "My English is very good."

"How long have you been working on that?" Keith asks. 

Ulaz beams at him and thumps him on the back. 

"Very good, yes?," Ulaz says, still with the fake accent. 

Keith looks at him sideways with the most unimpressed look he can manage.

"It's okay, I guess," he says. 

Ulaz shrugs his broad shoulders, still grinning, like he knows Keith is full of shit. 

"Where is Kogane family?" Ulaz asks. "They don't like you enough to come?"

Keith snorts.

"Guess you could say that," Keith says. 

Ulaz frowns at his dark tone, but Keith only shrugs and skates off towards where a couple of the older guys are hanging out at the other end of the ice. He obliges in dragging the sled of one of the toddlers around the ice for a few turns, but passes it off to another teammate as soon as he can. Children confuse him, even though they often attach themselves like barnacles to Keith if he’s around for too long. 

Kolivan, recently promoted to assistant coach from the AHL to replace the retired special teams coach, is watching Keith keenly when he comes off the ice. 

"You doing okay, kid?" he asks when Keith nods to him. 

Keith stops and considers the question for a beat too long, because Kolivan frowns. 

"I'm fine," Keith says finally. 

Kolivan crosses his arms, still frowning. 

"You're putting together a solid season," Kolivan says. It's a safe subject and Keith relaxes a little before Kolivan continues. "You having fun up here?"

"Fun?" Keith repeats doubtfully. His forehead wrinkles in confusion. 

Kolivan laughs, the sound deep and resonant. 

"You know this is a game, right?" Kolivan asks gruffly. 

Keith scowls, which only makes Kolivan laugh more, just on the knife's edge of unkind. 

"One day, you're gonna put it all together, kid," Kolivan says. "And you're gonna be a force of nature when it happens."

"I already have it together," Keith insists.

"Alright," Kolivan says, not arguing with Keith, which somehow feels even worse. 

Keith stares at him in frustration before just heading into the locker room without a goodbye. 

Kolivan could keep his damn sympathy. 

  
  


_X_ *  _X_ * _X_ 

  
  


Frustration turns from a simmer to boil to a low, angry fire as he racks up points but still gets ripped apart by the local media. All the beat writers seem to hate him and their word is gospel to the people of Philadelphia. It’s relentless and there’s no way to really escape it because it bleeds into the stands and the crowds outside who sneer and jibe at him as if he’s on the visiting team instead of their own. 

Keith is tired in a way that he’s never been tired before by the time Thanksgiving rolls around and he has a gap of more than two days to rest. He gets several invitations to some of the older guys’ family dinners, but he successfully ducks out of them and spends Thanksgiving alone on his couch, eating cold pizza and watching football. It’s nice, actually. He feels constantly surrounded by a press of people and the few moments he gets alone, he covets. 

Management had tried to group him up with some of the other rookies and get him to take a spare room in one of the vet’s houses, but Keith had successfully pulled the “I’m 21, not 18” card and manages to escape that fate. He rents a cramped house not far from the arena instead. He can afford better - a lot better - but sees no point in throwing money away on space he doesn’t need in a house he only occupies half the time. 

“How you doing, kid?” Richards, the Head Coach asks a couple days later before practice when he finds Keith lingering alone in the hall. Keith hates when they call him a kid. He’s a rookie in name only, having not played enough games the season previous up in the NHL to burn away the designation, but he’s far from the immature babies that make up the Blades’ freshman class.

“Fine,” Keith grunts. 

Richards makes him uneasy. He’s a great walrus of a man, if walruses could also scream with the lungs of banshees. It’s rare for him to even spare Keith so much as a glance. He usually leaves the individual conversations to the assistant coaches.

“You keeping your nose clean?” Richards presses on. There’s no way he’s not aware that Keith is uncomfortable, it feels like it’s rolling off Keith in waves, but Richards’ ruddy complexion reveals nothing.

“Clean, sir?” 

Richards frowns at him as if Keith has somehow misstepped, but then rubs his chin thoughtfully. He’s making a study of Keith and Keith isn’t sure if he’s passing the test. 

“Don’t give the wolves anything else to feed on, eh?” Richards says finally. Keith’s forehead wrinkles in question and Richards continues, “This town can be vicious. They like a good scapegoat.”

Keith swallows down the nervous bile that rises unbidden in his throat. If the Head Coach is commenting on how much the media and the city seem to hate him, then it’s not in Keith’s imagination that it’s been ramping up as the Blades slip in and out of the second wildcard spot.

“Yes, sir,” he says weakly.

Richards slips away just as quickly as he came, leaving Keith feeling vaguely nauseated. 

That afternoon, Tara forcefully grabs him for a quick promo, her perfect red nails biting into his shoulder as she leads him through the back tunnels of the arena to a staged area. Keith does his best imitation of a genuine smile on camera although he thinks it comes out as more of a reluctant grimace. Tara’s heavy sigh after his second take of the short promo and his subsequent dismissal don’t inspire confidence. 

When he gets home, he considers calling Shiro. They’ve been talking a lot recently, but Keith has carefully skirted the topic and Shiro, still wrapped up in trying to get his hand back to full mobility, doesn’t push it even though Keith can sometimes hear an annoying level of concern leaking through Shiro’s tone when he asks about how he’s doing. 

Keith is fine. He’s always fine. It doesn’t matter if the city he plays for hates him - what’s the difference? He’s still playing and that’s more than he ever thought he’d have.

  
  


_X_ *  _X_ * _X_ 

  
  


Keith is being followed. He first noticed the dog almost a mile ago and expects him to just drop off because Keith isn't exactly out for a leisurely jog. He checks his pace again just to make sure, but he's still sub-8. He stops for a breather at the next mile marker and it's only moments before the dog, huge and black and monstrously fluffy, catches him up with bright, curious eyes. 

"Hey, buddy," Keith says, eyeing him warily. He doesn't have much experience with dogs, but this one doesn't seem particularly unfriendly. When Keith stretches out a hand experimentally, the dog skirts around it, dancing out of reach. "Okay," Keith says, taking back his hand. "Suit yourself."

He squirts more water on his head and shakes it out before he taking a deep breath and plunging back onto the trail. The dog lopes behind him, his heavy breathing mixing with Keith's on the otherwise quiet early morning trail. Keith finishes the entire loop before he takes a turn away from the park to run the last mile through the neighborhood back to his house. The dog is still following him. Keith glances back at him, annoyed now, and stops running. The dog trots up behind him, stopping just out of reach. 

"Shoo," Keith says, waving the dog off, but the dog is entirely unconcerned. "I can't help you."

The dog is cute. A big, graceful shepherd mix of some sort with sleek, long black hair caked in mud and thistles. No collar. Keith squints at him, waving him off again, before starting back towards his house at a slow, cool-down pace. It does nothing to deter the dog who follows Keith all the way to his front gate, wagging his tail every time Keith looks back at him but refusing any advances from Keith. 

"I'm calling animal control," Keith tells the dog who looks back at him, tongue lolling, but otherwise unconcerned. 

Keith doesn't call animal control. 

He goes inside, shutting the front gate on the dog and then heads straight to a shower, determined to get on with his long weekend. When he's out and toweling his hair dry, the dog is still laying at his front gate, looking stupidly forlorn. 

Keith sighs.

When he opens the front door, the dog's ears perk up, but he doesn't stand. Keith walks out to him and rolling his eyes at himself, he opens the gate. The dog slowly stands, stretching his legs out and then slinks inside, still not quite in Keith's radius. The dog pads towards the front door but Keith heads to the side of the house instead where a garden hose is coiled. He whistles at the dog as he gets the water flowing. 

"C'mon, dog," he says. "There's no way you're going anywhere inside until we get that mud off."

By the time Keith is done bathing the dog, he's pretty sure more water got on him than the dog, but at least most of the mud has rinsed off. He herds the dog inside through the back door so he can sequester him in the sunroom where there's only tile and not carpet. He peels his clothes off and throws them in the washer before taking another quick shower since the dog's bath has pretty much rendered his first one useless. 

When he gets out and checks his phone, he has a missed call from Shiro. He calls him back. 

"Did you get him checked for a microchip?" Shiro asks after he finishes laughing his ass off at Keith. 

"What?" Keith grumbles. 

"Most dogs these days have them," Shiro says. "They're like a collar that can't get lost."

"How would I do that?" Keith says. He looks skeptically at the big dog currently camped out on the sunroom couch as if it's his own personal bed. 

"Uh, I don't know," Shiro says. "Probably a vet or something?"

Keith hums in acknowledgment and types 'veterinarian' into Google. There's a few nearby, but only one closeby is open on a Saturday. 

"So it'll just tell me his owner?" Keith asks. 

"Technology," Shiro says. 

Keith snorts. They're not on video call, but he knows exactly the expression that Shiro is making and it's dumb as hell. 

"Alright," Keith says. "I'm not letting that thing into my car though. We're walking."

  
  


_X_ *  _X_ * _X_ 

  
  
  


"They're not going to clear me before our roadie out East," Shiro says on another phone call a few weeks later. His face keeps freezing because of the shitty wi-fi at Keith's hotel but Keith can still see the genuine frown. "I really thought they would."

"Yeah, well," Keith says, swallowing his own disappointment. "Can't rush it."

Shiro sighs. Keith hated the facetime calls at first, but now after almost two months of them, they are almost alright. He still wouldn't do them with anyone but Shiro though. He worries too much about making his face be normal for that. 

"How're the contract talks going?" Shiro asks, clearly fishing for a subject change.

Keith winces. 

"They're not…really…going..." Keith says and then lets out a big sigh. "Actually, I've been meaning to tell you…"

Shiro's eyebrow raise is almost lost in the jerky video call, but Keith doesn't need to see it at this point. 

"I've been talking to Simons and he agrees," Keith says. "I'm going to wait until summer and go for free agency."

Shiro is quiet and it's hard to tell what he's thinking about Keith’s new agent’s advice, even though Keith can see his face. Keith presses his lips together, his teeth digging into the flesh until he tastes coppery blood on his tongue. 

"You could be passing up a lot of term by doing that," Shiro says finally.

"I know," Keith says. 

"Are the Blades not paying ball with you?" Shiro asks. 

Keith exhales heavily. He had gone round and round with his agent about this already because the Blades were indeed playing ball. Very generous ball. It's just…

"I don't think I want to keep playing here," Keith says. It's almost a whisper even though there's no one else in the room that could overhear him. He isn't even sure if the call would pick up what he said.

Shiro is quiet for a long moment. 

"Keith…" he says. "If that's how you feel, then go to free agency. I just want you to be sure that you know what you're giving up. Nothing is guaranteed."

Keith has a sickening flash of when Shiro's arm had been sliced open on the ice and he swallows down the sour taste in his mouth.

"I know," Keith says. "I know."

"You've been playing well," Shiro says. "Putting up a lot of points for so early in the season. If you can keep it up, you'll be in a good spot in July."

Keith nods, because it's nothing he doesn't know already and Shiro knows that too. 

  
  


_X_ *  _X_ * _X_ 

  
  


"You have a dog and you didn't tell me?" Lance yells almost as soon as he gets through the front door. 

The dog in question is peering at Lance from the other side of the couch, his tail wagging anxiously as he keeps his distance from the stranger. Keith scowls at Lance and punches him on the arm. 

"It's not my dog," he says. He leads the way to the living room where he sets down the two giant bags of take-out they'd grabbed after the game in which the Paladins had thoroughly crushed the Blades. Keith made Lance pay as a form of emotional reparations for the 7-1 blowout. The Paladins are halfway through a long roadie and will be gone in the morning for the short hop to Pittsburgh. As predicted, Shiro hadn't been cleared to play yet even though he insists his grip is "almost normal", so Keith is stuck hanging out with Lance for the evening instead. 

"I thought you said you live alone," Lance says. He's making ridiculous clucking noises at the dog, which only makes the dog more suspicious. 

"I do."

"Okayyyy," Lance says, clearly fishing. "So, you're just not going to explain the dog then."

Keith sighs, aggrieved. He hands Lance one of the takeout containers and starts to dig into his own that's piled high with grilled chicken and rice. 

"He's just some dog that followed me home the other week," Keith says. "I'm just letting him stay until the shelter finds him a home or whatever."

"Aww," Lance coos at the dog, who is now sitting and watching the two men eat, clearly torn over the promise of possibly getting scraps and fleeing from the stranger. "What's his name?"

"Dunno." Keith shrugs. "The shelter didn't have any record of him and the vet said he didn't have a chip."

"You should keep him," Lance says. "Look at him, he's such a good boy."

The good boy in question makes up his mind at that and slinks off to Keith's bedroom, looking behind him the whole way to make sure the stranger in the house isn't following him. Keith snorts when Lance’s lower lip juts out in a pout. 

“Rejected again,” Keith says dryly. Lance pummels him harder than necessary and Keith laughs. “Careful, I could accuse you of trying to sabotage the enemy.”

“You already played and lost, mullet boy,” Lance says, petulant and triumphant all at once. “By the way, you gonna keep that flow up?”

Keith runs a hand through his still damp hair and shrugs. It’s long and unruly, but most days Keith just pulls on a hat and ignores it anyway. 

Normally after a sloppy blowout like tonight’s, Keith would be in a sulky mood, but to his surprise, he’s actually happy to see Lance. He doesn’t often hang out with his own teammates and even though hanging out with Lance means a constant stream of chatter and questions, it barely even bothers Keith anymore after a full summer of it. 

“Do you think Shiro is close?” Keith asks during a rare pause in the conversation. 

Lance gives him a strange look and then shrugs. 

“Honestly, bro, you’d know better than me,” he says. “Feels like he’s always on the phone with you.”

Keith buries his face in his almost empty take-out container. 

“It’s hard to tell over the phone,” Keith grumbles. “Easier for him to lie.”

Lance laughs, but it’s a short and uncomfortable one. He puts aside his own empty container and stretches back on Keith’s couch, patting his stomach.

“He’s been taking the ice alone with Park - that’s one of our skills guys,” Lance says. 

Keith nods, willing him to continue. 

“They’re pretty hush hush about it to be honest.” Lance frowns. “Always scheduling his skates when we aren’t around to see him. I mean, he’s still around a lot in the locker room though, you know? Comes to every game and does his whole Captain thing still.”

Keith hums thoughtfully. 

“Do  _ you  _ think he’s close?” Lance asks, his eyes a little narrow. 

“Closer than he was when I left him in August,” Keith says. He raises an eyebrow at Lance. “He sounds a lot happier now, at least. Says he’s making progress.”

Lance hums too, but he makes it sound teasingly suspicious.

“Should you have this much information about the recovery of the beloved young captain of a rival team?” Lance asks.

Keith snorts.

“Little late for that.”

 

_X_ *  _X_ * _X_ 

  
  


The Blades hit the road right after Christmas and swing into California for a full week of games. They have the Paladins on New Year's Eve. It's a late game and Keith is dragging through the day, feeling off even though he'd had a couple days in San Jose to adjust to the new time zone. Puck drop was just too damn late on the West Coast. 

Shiro still isn't in the line-up, but he's taking practice skates now and allowed a no-contact jersey. Keith had been desperately hoping he'd be back in the line-up before their second and final match-up of the season, but no such luck there. The only small bit of luck is that the Blades have three days off before their next game in Vancouver and Keith is taking a day off to spend with Shiro. Lance and Hunk had tried to butt in, but Shiro had somehow convinced them to fuck off. 

They end up in Shiro’s backyard in lawn chairs by the friendly, crackling fire pit that had seemed unnecessarily when Shiro first lit it hours ago. As dark falls though, the humid, thick air of the day quickly gives way to a thinner, cool breeze that makes Keith scoot his chair closer. They’re both several beers in when Keith lets slip something he shouldn’t.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. He’s not slurring his words but they feel heavy on his tongue and he lolls his head back to look up at the sky instead of the fire or Shiro.

“What about?” Shiro asks and Keith can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Boxes.”

Shiro makes a non-committal noise, but he doesn’t interrupt when Keith continues. 

“I guess I just never really had the time to think about it before. I mean, I don’t know where I’d even start. I know it’s not….” he pauses, his brain thick with beer and doubt. “Like it used to be. But I don’t think I could do it in Philly. They hate me.”

“They don’t hate you,” Shiro says, reflexive and when Keith gives him a wry smile, he softens and leans forward in the soft glow of the fire. “What do you mean? Where to start?”

Keith waves his hand. 

“I mean,” he says, hesitating for the first time. “I know I’m not interested in women. I mean, I’m pretty sure... and I’ve never really considered the other options. But, where would I? The bars we go to, the people we meet...I mean, Shiro, how do  _ you  _ date?”

Shiro snorts and takes a long draw from his beer, killing it before setting the empty bottle beside his chair and grabbing a fresh one from the open cooler half-full of bobbing bottles in melted ice water. 

“I don’t,” he says it so simply that it takes Keith off-guard. “I had...I mean, you know about Adam already. There was this other guy for a while, Curtis, but...it didn’t work out, you know? He wanted me to be something that I’m not.”

“Yeah?” Keith asks softly, not sure what he’s confirming.

Shiro shakes his head. Keith is quiet and finishes his beer before saying anything more. 

“It’s probably a bad idea for me anyway,” he says. 

“What?” Shiro’s face is drawn in concern, his face soft in the shadows of the small fire. “Why would it be a bad idea?”

“I can’t --” Keith stops himself and makes a frustrated sound, gesturing helplessly with his hand. “I don’t  _ like _ people, Shiro. I don’t want to meet more of them.”

There’s a moment of silence before Shiro breaks it with a shuddering laugh that turns into a full guffaw. He’s grinning at Keith and holding his beer to his lips even though he’s still laughing too hard to swallow. Keith crosses his arms and scowls. 

“You like people,” Shiro says confidently. “You’re just picky about them.”

Keith harrumphs but doesn’t argue as he slinks down into his seat. He’s done with the topic for the night, as far as he’s concerned. Shiro, still animated with amusement, reaches out with a long arm and throws another small log on the fire. The fire dances up to eat at its new log with matching enthusiasm.

For a moment, as Shiro’s sharp cheekbones catch the light, Keith is struck by the thought of how beautiful his friend really is. He wonders what it would be like to kiss Shiro. He hasn’t ever given much headspace to kissing anyone, but Shiro's lips look soft and inviting enough. Keith isn't sure what a real kiss is supposed to feel like. The one and only time he'd kissed someone, it had been a woman in a bar and they had both been sweaty and drunk. He didn't remember feeling much of anything except uncomfortable. 

He takes another swig of beer and banishes the thought.

They both drink too much that night. Keith has another day off before his next game and plenty of time to sleep off the hangover, but Shiro is due at a morning skate the next day. He shrugs it off when Keith mentions it and they both stay outside until they’re drooping with sleep and drunkenness. 

Shiro nudges Keith awake at one point and pushes him towards the sliding porch door. Keith goes willingly and sways through the hallway, falling into the first bedroom he comes to, not bothering with his clothes but throwing off his shoes behind him as he crashes into bed. 

"Go get your own bed," Shiro groans but doesn't actually make any move to push Keith off the bed as he sits down on the other side of what must be his bed. Keith grabs one of the pillows and buries his face in it and Shiro shoves him lightly, but only to move him to a more defined side of the bed so he can swing his broad frame into the bed comfortably. 

"You get your own bed," Keith mumbles. 

"This is my bed," Shiro says. “‘Sides, not moving.”

Keith grunts in agreement. The floor is spinning, but just barely. He’s glad he doesn’t have to find his way back to the team hotel tonight - and, if he falls asleep quick enough, he probably doesn’t even have to find his way to Shiro’s guest room because they’ll both be passed out and it won’t matter.

“Keith,” Shiro breathes next to him and when Keith turns his head on the overstuffed pillow, Shiro’s face is much closer than he remembers it being. There’s a soft, dopey smile on Shiro’s face that warms Keith in a way that he’s never going to admit. “I’m glad you’re here. Missed you.”

“Yeah.” Keith smiles back at him. 

Between one breath and the next, Keith falls asleep.

When he drowses awake, it’s still night. He can tell because neither of them had bothered to pull the blackout curtains closed before passing out and the twilight is still mostly dark blue outside when Keith squints towards it. He grabs the glass of water sitting out on the nightstand. It’s not fresh by any means, but he gulps down the stale water anyway before flopping back into place. When he glances over at Shiro, Shiro is watching him silently with that same dopey smile curving at his lips. 

Nice lips, Keith notes for the second time that night. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, blinking back at Shiro.

“S’okay,” Shiro whispers and his eyes flutter shut. 

Keith exhales and closes his own eyes, but a moment later opens them again, letting them look their fill of Shiro’s lips. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out and runs a curious finger over the bow of Shiro’s lips. Shiro’s eyes blink open and Keith swallows, unsure of what it is he’s doing. When Shiro just gazes back at him without any reaction to Keith’s finger still lingering on his lips, Keith leans forward and clumsily presses his lips to Shiro’s mouth.

It’s awkward at first until Shiro softens beside him, his mouth moulding to Keith’s and guiding him into a kiss that is anything but underwhelming. Keith makes a small noise of satisfaction and shifts closer to Shiro. Shiro, waking up a little, moves too and his hand snakes around Keith’s neck to pull him closer into another series of kisses that are warm and soft and  _ perfect _ before he suddenly stills and pulls back. 

Keith surges forward to kiss him again, but Shiro’s hand holds him at a distance now instead of pulling him closer. Keith freezes the moment he realizes it and his eyes widen. Shiro’s grip slackens and his thumb runs up and down the bare skin of Keith’s arm soothingly as he shushes away whatever apology Keith tries to spit out. He leans close to Keith and lets his broad thumb run down the line of Keith’s jaw before kissing him simply one more time.

“We can’t do this, Keith,” Shiro whispers against his mouth, nor really pulling back from that last kiss. He turns his head to the side, but his lips don’t leave Keith’s skin, still dragging against his throat. “We can’t.”

Keith doesn’t try to argue with words, but he catches Shiro’s lips again, pressing his mouth against Shiro’s with bruising urgency. Shiro allows it, his hand twisting in Keith’s hair, his lips just as wild for a brief moment, but when they come apart for air, Shiro’s eyes are serious and apologetic. 

Keith swallows hard.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says and it’s worse than a flat  _ no _ would be. Shiro’s other hand is still in Keith’s hair, running through it gently. 

“No, it’s —” Keith pulls back jerkily and clears his throat before swinging himself out of bed. “Sorry.”

Shiro’s hand falls in the empty space he leaves, but he doesn’t stop Keith from leaving and seeking out the guest bedroom for the rest of the night. 

  
  


_X_ *  _X_ * _X_ 

  
  


Keith leaves before Shiro wakes up and when Shiro calls him nearly an hour later, he doesn’t answer, but responds with a short text,  _ Sorry. _ It’s the most he can make his fingers type and it feels so inadequate for the avalanche of guilt that Keith feels for the night before, sure that he’s ruined everything.

The typing bubbles appear and disappear several times before Shiro finally responds. 

_ Keith, it’s okay. Call me when you can.  _

Keith reads it over and over, trying to dissipate the stone in his stomach as he sits in his empty hotel room. Every time the screen dims, he pulls it back up again to read it until someone knocks at his door. He starts, nearly throwing the phone across the room, and worries for a ridiculous moment that somehow Shiro has followed him to the hotel, but it’s not Shiro — it’s Cordova, one of the younger guys on the team, perpetually tan and always sharply cheerful in a way that made Keith unsure if Cordova was laughing at him or with him. 

“Hey Kogane,” Cordova says as soon as Keith cracks the door. “We’re all heading to the beach.” 

“Uh,” Keith says. Normally he isn’t really invited to the more social outings — the guys had seemed to cotton on that he wasn’t all that interested in being social pretty quickly and Keith was fine with it. Cordova raises an eyebrow and nods his chin towards the empty room behind Keith. 

“Get your trunks on and let’s go,” he says. “Sunshine’s a wastin’ and a good desert boy like you needs sunshine to grow big and tall.”

Keith pulls a face at him but Cordova only laughs and pushes into Keith’s room, shoving at Keith. He’s a burly guy, built like a human bowling ball and maybe even more destructive than one when he’s on skates, but his shoves are playful as he looks around Keith’s neat hotel room that hasn’t even been slept in like it’s a curiosity and not a carbon copy of his own somewhere down the hallway. 

Keith finds his bathing suit. He had brought one in case Shiro wanted to hit up the beach, although they’d ended up getting drunk at his place instead. Cordova seems on a mission to supervise Keith through this whole thing, so Keith just sighs and strips, pulling on the trunks and grabbing a spare tank with a Blades logo on it from his bag. He’s still pulling it over his head when Cordova opens his room door again and sweeps his hand to usher Keith out. Keith scowls but grabs his snapback and wallet and walks out. 

At least the beach will get his mind off his stupid fucking decision making.

 

_X_ *  _X_ * _X_ 

  
  


Keith watches Shiro's first game back from his long recovery from his small laptop in a hotel room in godforsaken Winnipeg. Earlier that day when Keith had grumbled that no one should be forced to travel to Winnipeg in January, his teammates had laughed at him for being a soft desert kid, but Keith sees them doing some muttering of their own when they have to face the bitter, whipping wind after their morning skate. Now, after the game and exhausted, Keith watches the last period of Shiro’s first game back with a stone in his throat. Shiro is skating well. He looks like he never missed a beat and it makes Keith hot with anger that he hadn’t been allowed to play when Keith could have seen him on the ice himself. 

He texts Shiro instead.  _ Nice game. Get a goal next time.  _

When he wakes up the next morning, Shiro has responded with  _ Ha, will do. _ It feels like the most natural conversation they’ve had in the couple of weeks or so since their ill-advised kiss. Keith still hasn’t actually called Shiro and it might be the longest they’ve gone without a call since summer, but the texts are still coming which means Keith probably hasn’t totally fucked their friendship to hell. 

Just, like, partway to hell.

  
  


_X_ *  _X_ * _X_ 

  
  


“There’s been a lot of speculation surrounding why Keith Kogane hasn’t yet signed an extension with the Blades. There are some rumors of discord between him and the coaches —” 

Keith turns off the TV with a scowl and throws the remote onto the coffee table. The dog skitters away from it, but then comes back just as quickly, re-settling at Keith’s feet. Keith scratches his ears absently before ruffling them and getting up. He’s going to be late to practice if he keeps fucking around with TSN and their dumbass opinions about his contract. 

He’s barely through the door of the practice arena when he’s snagged on the arm by one of the assistant coaches, Fehr, who looks put out to be talking to Keith at all. 

"Hey, Kogane," Fehr says. "Richards wants to see you before you hit the ice."

Keith nods and hitches his bag to his shoulder. His stomach is squeezing uncomfortably at the unexpected summons. Are they sending him down? Technically, they can, even though he’s been playing well. Maybe not as hot as he had been at the beginning of the season, but certainly enough to stay up. His feet take him to the small office that Richards has next to the locker room and he drops his bag right outside the door, shoving it up against the wall and knocking on the cracked door.

Richards is on the phone when Keith knocks on the mostly open door, but waves him in and hangs up before Keith can even fully sit down. 

"You ever been traded before, kid?" Richards asks, not beating around the bush. Keith likes that about him most days, but today, it’s like a suckerpunch straight to the gut. He blinks back at his coach, his mouth suddenly bone dry.

"No, sir," Keith answers honestly. 

"How quick can you pack your bags?"

Keith doesn’t answer. It probably doesn’t matter anyways.

"Your flight out to California is at 9:15 tonight," Richards says. "I suggest packing up everything you can and taking it with you because it will be awhile before you're back on this coast again."

"California?" Keith asks dumbly.

Richards raises an eyebrow at him and the folds of his ruddy face might twitch into a smile momentarily before his face goes back to the same scowling neutral as always. 

“You’ve got friends out there, right?” he says, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “L.A. will treat well. The Paladins have a good organization out there and it'll be a good fit for you. Gives you a fresh start too. They don't have much depth down the right wing and you should be able to carve out a lot of ice time.” 

Keith nods. He feels numb as he gets up and forgets to even say thank you to Richards, but the old coach doesn't even seem to notice and goes right back to his computer before Keith has even left. 

California. The Paladins. It would have felt too good to be true only a month ago, that Keith would be playing on Shiro’s team. Today it feels like nothing but another stone in his stomach. He’s been avoiding calls with Shiro since he’d last seen him and Shiro had given him his distance -- there would be no distance to be had when Keith unceremoniously shows up in L.A. though.

The rest of the day is a blur. Keith doesn't own much beyond his pile of hockey equipment and some clothes. He takes the better part of two hours driving the damn dog to the dog park where he lets him run until he’s exhausted and then turns his car towards the shelter. One of the dog handlers is waiting for him when he pulls up even though the shelter isn’t open for another hour. He’d called ahead. She politely looks away when Keith kneels down and whispers to the dog. 

“You’re gonna find a great home, okay?” he says. The dog, still amped from the park and in good spirits, forgets to be shy when Keith hands the leash over to the staff member and takes the dried liver she holds out him without a sniff of hesitation. Keith blinks away tears. He’s always known it was temporary -- he never even really wanted the dog -- but he’d grown more attached than he meant to. The dog whines when Keith walks away, leaving him alone. 

Keith still gets to the airport an hour early, feeling weirdly empty about leaving the city he'd made his home for the past three and a half years since he'd left Arizona. Some of the guys had hugged him before he’d left the practice rink, but his social circle was modest. There just weren’t that many people to say goodbye to. He’s still thinking about the way the dog whined when he left him at the shelter and he turns his music up louder to make his brain stop replaying the moment on loop. 

There's no one waiting for him at the airport in L.A. that is quiet but still bustling with people even though it’s past ten when Keith’s flight lands. It feels much later to Keith -- the lost hours from the time change dragging at him as he collects his bags and walks outside into the muggy night air. Keith grabs one of the cabs lurking outside and gives them the address to the hotel that had been emailed to him while he was in the air by the Paladins’ manager. The Paladins themselves are also flying in that night, probably not even landed yet from their late night flight home from Colorado, or Keith might have considered just heading to Shiro’s place instead. The mountains outside his window throughout the ride into the city remind Keith of home - the sandy, washed-out brown of the landscape both familiar and strange to Keith as he watches this new desert pass him by from the backseat of the cab. 

The hotel the cab eventually drops him outside of is less than inspiring, but the map on Keith's phone assures him that he can walk to the practice rink from here for the morning skate he's expected at tomorrow and that's good enough for him as he drags all three of his bags inside to the dingy lobby. The receptionist looks like she would rather be anywhere else as she checks Keith in and he can sympathize. 

He doesn't bother unpacking that night, just strips off his plane clothes and collapses on top of the itchy comforter of the bed after plugging in his phone and setting an alarm so he won't miss practice. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, writing this chapter: hypothetically if the blades are in philly and the flyers don’t exist then gritty is actually the blades’ mascot and therefore keith can meet gritty --
> 
> also, don’t worry about kosmo pup. he will find his way to california too! i just needed to make keith feel as sad as possible for like...a bit. okay.


	4. power play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro laughs and awkwardly runs a hand through his sweaty hair. It’s been freshly shaved on the sides since Keith saw him last, only a floppy pouf of silver hair falling into the middle of Shiro’s forehead remains. It’s cute.   
> It makes Keith want to run out of the building and never come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, thank you for your patience, i've been on vacation and also lazy. 
> 
> this chapter brought to you by ["best friends" by ingrid michaelson](https://youtu.be/2ZotF8rui9s) on endless loop. ty goodbye. 
> 
> ALSO!!!!! [@effitsfranki made ART for this fic](https://twitter.com/effitsfranki/status/1150530865736409089) and it's really fabulous, please stare at it in awe with me.

The Paladins’ practice facility is a hell of a lot nicer than the run-down rink that the Blades had crammed them into. Mainly because every inch of it is new and gleaming stainless steel and white. It feels incredibly…Californian to Keith as he is led through the front lobby of the rink by a tall blonde man on the Paladins’ payroll who came to escort him from the hotel even though Keith hadn’t asked for a ride. He gets a few friendly enough nods from players and staff as he walks through the hall. The man deposits him in the locker room which already has a stall set up for him.

The grey practice jersey has hurried letters spelling “KOGANE” on the back. He’s halfway through pulling on his gear when most of the other guys filter in. There are rounds of handshakes and nods again, but his new team had a late flight the night before and none of them seem in the mood for chatting except one.

“Where are your bags?” Shiro says, appearing out of nowhere with his skates already on and hair tousled with sweat. He must have already been on the ice that morning because his bronze skin is flushed. He looms over where Keith is sitting on the bench and looks around like Keith has somehow stashed his suitcases in the otherwise empty stall.

“Uh, at the hotel?” Keith says.

Shiro frowns.

“You could have just gone straight to my place,” he says. “You know the door code.”

Keith looks down at his hands.

“Wasn’t really sure if that was the best idea, I guess,” Keith says.

Shiro doesn’t answer right away and before Keith can find the courage to look up, Shiro lowers himself to sit next to Keith on the bench.

“Look, we shouldn’t talk about it here,” Shiro says. “But I will say that as far as I’m concerned, you’re my best friend and nothing has changed.”

Keith gives him a long look and presses his lips together.

“Okay,” he says finally.

“Okay?” Shiro asks. The hope on his face makes him look impossibly young and Keith’s heart constricts at the flash of memory that it brings.

“Yeah,” Keith confirms. “Okay.”

“I’m really glad you’re here, Keith,” Shiro says. “I was…worried you might not come.”

Shiro laughs and awkwardly runs a hand through his sweaty hair. It’s been freshly shaved on the sides since Keith saw him last, only a floppy pouf of silver hair falling into the middle of Shiro’s forehead remains. It’s cute.

It makes Keith want to run out of the building and never come back.

He grinds his teeth together instead.

“Of course I was going to come,” Keith says, not bothering to hide his low mood. “The Blades practically stuffed me on the plane themselves.”

“Well…” Shiro’s smile was pained. “Welcome to Los Angeles.”

Keith sighs.

“I can stay at the hotel,” he says quietly. He can’t meet Shiro’s eye, but also can’t let the subject drop.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Shiro says almost immediately. “If you…I mean, if you really don’t want to stay with me, there are plenty of other guys you can bunk with.”

Keith blinks at him.

“You think _I_ don’t want to stay with you?” Keith asks, confused.

Shiro blinks back.

A sharp whistle interrupts them both before they can continue and Shiro just pats his knee as a clear indication that the conversation will continue after practice before clapping his hands and beginning to round up the other few stragglers still in the locker room and herding them all, including Keith, onto the ice to begin warm-ups and then line drills.

 

 

_X_ *_X_* _X_

 

 

The first thing Keith really notices as _different_ about the Paladins is the amount of media in the room after their close 3-2 loss that night. Back with the Blades, fresh blood would have brought reporters out in droves and all of them would have descended on Keith first, but there are only a small handful of reporters in the Paladins’ locker room post-win and although, they all eye Keith, they seem more focused on getting soundbites from Shiro and the kid who scored the game winner, Phillips.

Keith is nearly to the showers when one of the reporters shoves a mic in his face and smiles, obviously knowing that she caught him right in time.

“Welcome to L.A., Keith,” she says. “How are you liking it so far.”

“Uh?” Keith is taken aback by the weirdly friendly tack.

The reporter waits for him to elaborate and then when the silence stretches on too long, her smile freezes in place before she nods and moves on to the next question.

"Is it right that you overlapped with Takashi Shirogane by one year in high school?" she asks.

Keith flinches at the unexpected question and throws a glance towards where he last saw Shiro, but Shiro has disappeared in the meantime.

"Uh, yeah." Keith says cautiously.

This time the reporter doesn’t let the silence stretch on as long.

"What's it like to play with him again like this?" she prompts finally.

"Oh, um, good?" Keith says. He's incredibly aware of his sweaty curls sticking to his face and reaches up to push them away. "It's nice."

Keith hadn’t really seen all that much ice time tonight, only going over the boards a handful of times per period and never with Shiro’s line, so it’s not like they were actually playing together.

The reporter blinks at him and then sighs, flicking off her recorder. She's gone, moving on to the next player before Keith can even really unscramble his thoughts.

Great, already off to a bad start with the locals then.

"Nice game, kid," Matt Holt claps him on the shoulder. He's tall and lean, already halfway out of his pads, and is grinning down at Keith. "Don't get too up in your feelings about the media guys. They think we're all boring."

"Yeah," Keith says.

He heads to the showers before anyone else can corner him with questions and tries not to drown in self-pity as he thinks about his dumb fucking answers to the most softball questions in the world. When he can no longer justify any more time under the shower head, he towels off and goes back out to the emptying locker room to find Shiro sitting the stall next to his. He takes a deep breath to steel himself before he crosses the room to Shiro and begins to pull on his clothes.

“I want to stay with you,” Keith says so quietly he’s afraid he’s going to have to repeat himself.

Shiro tips him a smile though and leans his head back against the wood.

“Good,” he says. “I’m glad.”

Keith stares at him for a moment, halfway through buttoning up his shirt and knocked a little breathless by Shiro’s easy forgiveness. He swallows down any protest that might slip out and hurriedly finishes dressing while Shiro patiently waits. They walk out to the private employee lot together and Shiro bumps his shoulder as they near his car.

“I think you’ll like it here if you give it a chance,” he says. “A real chance.”

“I will.”

Shiro gives him a long look and then smiles.

“Let’s get you moved in then.”

 

_X_ *_X_* _X_

 

 

Keith doesn’t mean to open the shelter’s webpage. He just kind of finds himself there. There’s a short profile on the dog he’d left with them half-way down the page and Keith’s heart squeezes when he sees the familiar dopey ears. The shelter staff had officially named him Kosmo at some point even though Keith had never adopted the name in the house, always just thinking of him as ‘the dog’.

“Kosmo with a ‘K’,” Lance’s voice interrupts Keith’s perusal of the site and Keith turns to scowl over his shoulder at him. They’re on the team plane to Minnesota and Lance, in the row behind Keith, is craning his head over the seats to spy.

Keith closes out the website quickly.

“Why didn’t you bring him here, Keith?” Lance asks. “He was such good boy.”

“He wasn’t mine.” Keith crosses his arms.

“He could have been!”

“Are we talking about the dog?” Hunk’s face peeks over the top of seats to hover over Keith as well.

Keith scowls harder.

“Gotta say,” Hunk says. “Lance really talked up this dog and then you show up empty-handed.”

“You really just left him at the shelter?” Lance asks. “That’s cold, Kogane.”

“Guys,” Shiro interrupts in his Captain voice, but Lance waves him off.

“Do you think you can still go back for him?” Hunk asks, sounding strangely wistful for a dog he’s never even met.

“No,” Keith says.

“Why not?”

“Because, it was always temporary. Besides, I don’t even have my own place.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you brought the dog,” Shiro says. Keith looks at him, unbelieving that Shiro could be such a traitor. Shiro smiles in return and elbows him from the seat next to him. “He sounded sweet when you talked about him.”

Lance and Hunk both coo and Keith huffs.

“It’s too late anyways,” Keith says. “We won’t be back out there until April and he’ll be long gone by then.”

Everyone is quiet for a moment, but then Hunk, quieter than before, says, “I think Pauler hired some service to fly his dog here when he had to come from Montreal. Some lady got him all ready to travel and then delivered him right to Pauler’s house.”

Lance snaps his fingers as if it’s decided and Keith sinks further down into his seat with frown. He’d never heard of a cross-country pet delivery service, but he supposes if you have enough money, you can ask people to do any number of silly things for you. Some small, stupid part of him wonders how much it would cost.

 

_X_ *_X_* _X_

 

 

Shiro sleeps in an arm brace that Keith pretends he doesn’t know about. He sees it for the first time a couple weeks after he settles in to the house when Shiro, sleepy and vague, is struggling with the coffee maker in the kitchen and still has it on. When Keith walks in, he frowns and then blinks down at his brace, before wincing.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” Shiro says.

Keith presses his lips together, but nods curtly and shoving Shiro aside and fixing the coffee machine himself.

“Is it still that bad?” Keith asks, not looking directly at Shiro and instead watching his vague reflection in the shiny surface of the coffee pot.

Shiro is quiet for a long time before he clears his throat.

“I just…I don’t want to talk about it yet, okay?”

Keith looks over at him in surprise.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay.”

Shiro winces again and then opens his mouth, clearly on the verge of apologizing, but Keith shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” Keith says. “It’s none of my business.”

“Keith…” Shiro sighs, but Keith shakes his head again and leaves the kitchen without his usual morning coffee.

Keith shuts himself into his bedroom and Shiro doesn’t give chase. He doesn’t ask about the arm brace again and Shiro never wears it outside of the confines of his own bedroom again, clearly not wanting to stir up any more curiosity. Keith tries not to feel it as a sign of distrust between them.

Once he starts looking again, it’s obvious that Shiro is still hurting. Shiro is almost never without a small stress ball now, balled up in his fist as if the mere act of curling his fingers around something and being able to hold on to it was a comfort. Sometimes he drops it and Keith pretends not to notice. Just like he doesn’t notice the pills that Shiro is popping for the pain. He’s getting good at not noticing.

In games, Shiro is as confident and strong as always, refusing to let whatever is wrong with his arm hold him back. He’s still on pace for 40 goals that season and he’s been on a goal streak since Keith was bumped up to his right wing. Keith has been doing well himself since the coach put them together again and has scored more in the few weeks since his trade than he has since Thanksgiving.

The local media notices and instead of twisting it into something unlikeable, they seem determined to make Keith into a local hero. They laugh when he doesn’t have a ready answer to their questions and constantly pepper him with encouragement to stay in L.A. as though Keith isn’t going to jump at the first contract that the Paladins throw his way even if his new agent, Simons, hates it. Shiro’s agent had been nice enough, although reluctant to take Keith on after their first meeting, but Keith suspected that Shiro pulled strings to make it happen. He has to admit that Simons had been helpful in navigating the Blades’ offers and his other options. He would probably still be in Philadelphia without Simons.

The Paladins have been patient with Keith about contract extensions but Simons was positive about the feelers they had sent his way. Keith wants to get the contract over with so he can stop taking calls about amounts of money that seem insane to him, but Simons is in no such rush and is forcing Keith to cool his heels. If Simons wasn’t also Shiro’s agent, Keith might have told him to fuck off, but the connection to Shiro keeps him quiet. He isn’t sure what strings Shiro pulled to make this happen after all.

“You want term or money from the Paladins, kid?” Simons asks instead of saying hello late in February. “You can’t have both.”

“Term,” Keith says with no hesitation.

Simons is quiet on the other end of the line and Keith bites down on his tongue.

“If I told you that you were making a mistake here, would that change your mind?” Simons asks.

There’s blood in Keith’s mouth. He lets the bitter taste swirl before swallowing. He’s glad that it’s not a video call because he’s not sure what his own face is doing just then.

Simons sighs on the other end of the call when Keith doesn’t answer.

“We can have the papers drawn up whenever you’re ready, Keith,” Simons says, his voice tired now, which means he’s not going to fight Keith on it, at least. “You want to wait ’til off-season or are you good to go?”

“I’m ready now,” he says. He thinks of Shiro in the next room over and his stomach clenches with something that might be happiness. “I’d like to sign sooner than later.”

“Alright,” Simons says. “I’ll be in touch. Expect it in the next week or two.”

“Okay.”

“And Keith?” Simons says. “Tell Shirogane he owes me a strong drink.”

“Why?

“He knows why.”

 

_X_ *_X_* _X_

 

 

Shiro goes hard into the boards the next night and though he doesn’t do much more than grimace when Keith gives him an assessing look that night as they pull into the driveway, Keith can tell he’s hurting. Keith goes straight to the kitchen to grab fresh ice packs and wraps them in the kitchen towel that hung off the stove before following after where Shiro had disappeared into his room. The door isn’t closed all the way so Keith doesn’t knock. He pushes it open to see Shiro carefully stripping his suit off and obviously favoring his arm.

Shiro glances to where Keith is paused in the doorway and his mouth twists into a frown but he doesn’t kick Keith out, so Keith advances on him and sits on the end of the tidily made bed, his eyes taking in the neat bedroom that he usually only sees from the hallway. He hasn’t been inside since his ill-advised attempt to kiss Shiro. He waits until Shiro is changed into sweatpants before handing over the ice pack.

Shiro grunts in thanks and sits beside Keith on the bed. He hisses when the cold of the ice pack hits his skin but holds onto it grimly.

“What did the trainer say?” Keith asks.

Shiro doesn’t answer, his mouth pressed shut. Keith gives him an annoyed look and Shiro looks annoyed right back.

“It’s fine.”

Keith snorts. “Obviously not.”

“It was just a bad angle tonight. It’s _fine_.”

“Shiro —”

“You don’t have to take care of me, Keith.”

Keith gapes at him, a little stunned at the sharpness in Shiro’s voice. Shiro looks away before sighing and rubbing his eyes.

“I know,” Keith says, quiet. 

“Do you?” 

“Shiro.” Keith almost laughs. “I want to be here. With you. Is that so crazy to believe?”

“I don’t…” Shiro sighs heavily and leans his head back. “Keith, I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Keith blinks at him.

“How would you be taking advantage of me?”

“Keith.”

“No.” Keith shakes his head. “That’s bullshit. You’re not taking advantage of me. Christ, Shiro. I’m the one who threw myself at you.”

Shiro laughed, but it was dry and humorless.

“I pushed you to think about your sexuality though,” he says. “I—”

“Shiro,” Keith says, now barely containing the hysterical, choking laughter in his throat. He wasn’t expecting this turn in the conversation and it’s a little dizzying as he looks over at Shiro. “I was…lost before you said that. I thought maybe I was broken or I just wasn’t trying hard enough with women. You didn’t push me into anything. You asked me a question and then let me think it over for months.”

Shiro is quiet, staring into his folded hands.

“I’m sorry for kissing you,” Keith says. He feels his face heat and he tries to will it away. “I shouldn’t have. I just…”

_Wanted to_ sits on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t say it, snapping his mouth shut instead.

“Do you want me to leave?” slips out of Keith’s mouth instead, traitorous and raw. “I haven’t signed it yet, I can.”

“No,” Shiro says. “ _No_.”

“Then what?” Keith asks. “What do you want, Shiro?”

Shiro exhales loudly and leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. Keith watches him in the silence of the room. He can hear his own heart thudding in his ears, the only noise in the otherwise quiet house around them.

“I want you to be here with me,” Shiro says finally. “I always want you here.”

Shiro turns and meets his eyes. Keith remains quiet, feeling that there’s something more that Shiro is working up towards. He doesn’t mean to, but his eyes flick down to where Shiro’s right fist is slowly clenching and unclenching.

“I know you’ve figured out at least some of it,” Shiro says, catching where Keith’s eyes had gone and looking down at his arm too. “You’ve been…more than patient with me about it. I don’t think I deserved that.”

Keith feels frozen to his seat, wanting to both pull Shiro into his arms and turn away at the same time as Shiro’s words absorb fully. His eyes fixate on Shiro’s hands, tracing the strong, thick lines of his fingers and trying to process how deep the damage really goes.

“The truth is — I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to play.”

It’s a verbal bomb that detonates precisely between them. Keith stares at Shiro in shock. Shiro is steady beside him on the bed where they sit, but Keith can see the uncertainty in his eyes as Keith’s brain reels with the revelation.

“You could have told me sooner,” Keith says, but with no venom or teeth.

“I should have,” Shiro says. “I wanted to. I just…”

It hangs between them until Keith nods slowly.

“I don’t want you to regret signing here,” Shiro says.  

“How could I?”

“Keith,” Shiro says.

“Shiro, if you never play another game, I won’t regret it.”

Shiro shifts the ice pack and looks down at it for a long time before setting it aside and then, gently, slowly, as if Keith might run if he did it too quickly, reaches out for Keith’s hand and weaves their fingers together.

“Thank you, Keith,” Shiro says. His dark eyes are sincere and open as he squeezes Keith’s hand and then lets it go. “I’m so…I’m happy you’re here.”

Keith waits for the right words to come to him, but nothing comes to his lips. He wishes Shiro hadn’t let go of his hand, but instead of reaching for him again, Keith folds his arms together and stands.

“Don’t go to sleep without another round of ice and a heating pad,” Keith says gruffly.

Shiro snorts and swipes at him playfully with his good hand before falling back on the bed and grabbing the abandoned ice pack, which is now sweating through the thin dishcloth that Keith had wrapped it in. Keith watches Shiro press it against the bare skin of his shoulder for a moment before turning and leaving Shiro alone for the night.

 

_X_ *_X_* _X_

 

 

Keith signs his contract before 6 A.M. the next Monday, right before stepping on the team plane for a four-day roadie to Texas and Colorado. Shiro sits beside him on the plane and it feels as though they have already been doing this forever and will keep doing it forever, even though Keith knows it’s only been two months since he was inserted into the Paladins’ line-up and nothing is guaranteed even with a signed contract.

It’s a shitty trip and although they nab the first win, they drop the next two and the return flight home is subdued. The Paladins are firmly in the #3 spot in their division, but still far from clinching their playoff spot and every loss this time of year feels like a gut punch when you’re on the bubble.

“Do you mind if we run an errand on the way home?” Shiro asks as Keith throws his gear bag in the trunk. Keith squints at him, usually Shiro was eager to get home and decompress after roadies, but ultimately just shrugs.

“Whatever.”

Shiro smiles and Keith gives him a suspicious look. They’d been on a plane for five hours, cramped and grumpy after dropping two games in a row, and Shiro has no right to look so cheerful as he tucks himself behind the wheel. When they pull out, Shiro takes a right instead of their normal left and heads west into a shabby suburb mostly occupied by hipster parents. Keith frowns out at the passing neighborhood, not because he feels particularly strongly but because every block they drive is taking him further away from his bed which he had been looking forward to.

“What are we doing?”

“Nothing big,” Shiro says. “It won’t take long. Promise.”

Keith looks over at him, suspicious again, but Shiro is smiling easily, his hands drumming to the beat of the low music coming from the radio.

“You’re being weird.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Before they can argue further though, Shiro takes a sharp turn into a parking lot and pulls up to a nondescript strip mall with a Chinese buffet, some insurance offices, and a doggie daycare place.

“You brought me all the way out here for Chinese food?” Keith asks doubtfully as Shiro gestures for him to get out of the car.

“Not really,” Shiro laughs. He pushes Keith playfully and turns him towards the other end of the strip mall where the dog place was and nods. “That’s where we’re headed actually.”

Keith stops in his tracks and throws Shiro a doubtful look.

“What?”

“Trust me.” Shiro shrugs at Keith’s doubtful expression and loops back to gently shove him again in the direction of the business.

Keith stumbles for a moment but recovers quickly and walks into the blast of air-conditioning of the doggie daycare. There’s a large cleared floor space to the left that has blocks and other obstacles set up randomly and a single trainer is putting a small shepherd dog through each of them.

“Hi, how can I help you?” a bright voice from the other side of the lobby drags Keith’s attention away from the trainer and her dog. Shiro is already half-way across the room, standing at the desk by the time Keith goes to join him. He misses what Shiro says but the young clerk behind the desk smiles brightly and nods before disappearing behind a swinging door.

“Isn’t it P.R.’s job to set up the dog calendar photoshoot?” Keith asks. He crosses his arms and looks around the lobby packed to the gills with dog treats and other toys with suspicion. “Or are you adopting and didn’t tell me?”

“Me?” Shiro asks. “I’m not the one adopting, no.”

Keith gives him a puzzled look, but doesn’t have a chance to answer before the swinging door behind the counter bursts open and a huge, familiar bulk of blue-grey fur is bounding up and over the counter as the small clerk cries out in surprise as she’s dragged forward by the puny leash she has looped around her wrist.

Keith sputters and he’s not sure if it’s a laugh or horrified surprise as he helps unclip the dog - _Kosmo_ \- from where the clerk is barely holding onto him. As soon as Keith lays both hands on the dog, Kosmo calms and sits on the counter, an oversized, panting gargoyle whose wagging tail knocks everything in reach off the counter.

“Hey boy,” Keith says. “How’d you get all the way out here?”

Shiro leans on the counter next to Keith and lets Kosmo sniff at him curiously with a grin. Keith gives him a calculating look.

“You did this?”

Shiro shrugs.

“I had help. Romelle flew to Pennsylvania to pick him up while we were on the road and he’s been staying here until we could come get him.”

“He’s been great,” the clerk, now recovered from being dragged into the counter, says, her voice bright again. “Shy at first, but a total love bug once he gets to know you. Huh, boy?”

Kosmo leans into her offered ear scratch and licks up the side of her face. A laugh bubbles out of Keith and he tightens his fingers in the soft, wiry fur of the dog he thought he’d never see again.

“Thank you,” Keith says to her sincerely and then turns to Shiro. He can feel the shine in his eyes but he blinks it away as the clerk helps Kosmo jump off the counter and walks him around the counter so she can properly hand off the leash to Keith. “Shiro, this is…wow.”

“I know you missed him.”

“Yeah, but…”

“But nothing. We have the room and I like dogs. There’s no reason he couldn’t be here with you. The shelter back in Philly was over the moon to hear he could come here and be with you.”

Keith looks away and leans down to bury his face into Kosmo’s fur. Kosmo accepts his affection easily, climbing into Keith’s lap even though he is easily two times too big to properly fit there.

“So, what do you say?” Shiro squats down next to Kosmo and when he reaches out to pet the panting dog, Kosmo easily accepts the touch, obviously too amped in the moment to remember to be shy. “Ready to take him home for good?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playing a game to see how long i can spin the plot of this story out so that i don't have to go back to my novel and figure out what's wrong with *that* plot. please support me. 
> 
> p.s. don't forget to check out [the cool art from @effitsfranki!!!](https://twitter.com/effitsfranki/status/1150530865736409089)


	5. breakaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They put him on a fucking billboard. 
> 
> Keith is floored the first time he sees it on their drive into the arena and then, plain confused when he sees they’ve also replaced many of the huge posters outside and in the arena to also feature his face, right alongside Shiro’s and some of the other Paladins in the leadership group. Keith can’t help but feel he doesn’t belong there, being the shortest tenured of all the Paladins.

They put him on a fucking billboard. 

Keith is floored the first time he sees it on their drive into the arena and then, plain confused when he sees they’ve also replaced many of the huge posters outside and in the arena to also feature his face, right alongside Shiro’s and some of the other Paladins in the leadership group. Keith can’t help but feel he doesn’t belong there, being the shortest tenured of all the Paladins. 

“They just signed you for 5 more years and you’re having a career-best season,” Shiro laughs when Keith says as much. “You’re a natural choice.”

Keith only scowls back at him and Shiro slings an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. 

“Enjoy it, Keith. You deserve this.”

Still. A fucking billboard. Even if he is having the best season of his life, that seems a little much for someone like Keith. 

It doesn’t stop there though. 

“You wore an A back in the minors, right?” Shiro asks him one afternoon as they go through the motions of their pre-game routines. 

Keith isn’t sure how to process the question. 

“Uh. For like two minutes, I guess?”

Shiro hums. 

“Granny’s gonna be out for the rest of the season,” Shiro says. “They asked me if I had anyone I wanted to take his A while he’s out.”

“What? Shiro, no.”

Shiro grins at him. 

“You didn’t.” Keith feels a weight drop in his stomach at the thought of it. 

Shiro’s grin fades into a frown. 

“What’s the problem?”

“Shiro, I…there are so many other guys in front of me for that.”

Shiro’s expression shifts and Keith hates the tiny trace of disappointment there.

“Do you not want it, then?”

“I…I don’t know. It’s not something I’ve ever really thought about, I guess.”

When they’d given it to him back in the minors, he hadn’t had his eye on it either. Kolivan seemed to have just decided for him that he’d be a good alternate captain, like Shiro is doing now. Except Keith was a lot more afraid of talking back to Kolivan than he is Shiro. 

“Keith.” Shiro pauses and his lips purse in thought for a moment. “You don’t have to take it, but I think you’d be great for the team. You’re a natural leader and the Paladins need someone who’s going to be here for a long time to step up. When I put your name forward, I meant it and not just because we’re friends. Even if that were it, the coaches wouldn’t offer it if they didn't think you could be a good fit.”

Keith exhales slowly, pushing every last bit of breath out. 

“Well,” he says. “Technically they haven’t actually offered it to me yet.”

Shiro snorts quietly and scratches his neck. Keith sighs as he watches him, feeling a dam breaking inside of him at Shiro’s stupid, sincere expression of hope. 

“Fine.” Keith crosses his arms. “But if Lance kills me in my sleep for leapfrogging him, it’s your fault.”

Shiro nods seriously.

“I’ll make sure to include that in my eulogy at your funeral.”

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

 

Lance doesn’t kill Keith, but probably only because when the A is finally offered to Keith, it’s with the understanding that he’ll be rotating home and away games with Lance. Keith is still worried that Lance will see this as yet another competition with him or worse, something Keith had encroached on without deserving it. Lance is a little tight-lipped at practice and quiet throughout their plane ride, but by the time they’ve touched down in New York, he seems to have bounced back. 

Hunk elbows Keith gently as they get off the plane and Keith slows his steps to linger with Hunk as the rest of team walks on without them through the small, private airport. 

“He’ll be fine,” Hunk says as soon as they’re alone. “He knows you deserve the A just as much.”

Keith can’t keep the surprise off his face and Hunk claps him on the shoulder. 

“Dude,” Hunk says before Keith can say anything. “You’ve been a beast ever since you came and we want you here for a long time. You’re a great choice for this, even if it totally sucks that Granny is out for the rest of the season. I wouldn’t be surprised if they let you keep it next year too. Maybe they won’t even make you share.”

Hunk claps Keith hard on the shoulder and the affection in the gesture jolts through Keith. He smiles tentatively at Hunk. He hasn’t really dared to consider Hunk his friend before now, thinking him as more of Shiro and Lance’s friend than his own, but Hunk clearly didn’t care if Keith was on board with being friends or not. 

“Thanks, man,” Keith says and to his own surprise, means it. “I really appreciate you saying that.”

Hunk smiles widely and squeezes Keith’s shoulder, steering them both toward the bus. They get in the slow-moving line of their teammates, but still keep a little back from the crowd. 

“You should join us for drinks tonight,” Hunk says. “Mingle with us commoners who aren’t bestowed with billboards and letters on our jerseys.”

Keith elbows him sharply and they both laugh. 

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” Keith says. 

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


When the skate hits his face that same night, it doesn’t feel like a cut - it’s just a white-hot burst of pain across his chin. He’s down and bleeding on the ice before he can really think about it, his bare hand covered in blood that drips down onto the white of the ice, looking brighter than life itself. 

People are yelling, but Keith can’t focus until Shiro is leaning over him. 

“Keith!” his voice, strangely thin and worried, cuts through the noise and Keith blinks up at him. Shiro has thrown off his own gloves already and grabs Keith’s face gently to inspect him. “Is it your — Jesus, that got close.” 

A laugh bubbles to Keith’s lips but it comes out choked. He accepts Shiro’s hand to get to his legs, shaky underneath him. One of the Hackers comes up to skate beside them. His face is unfamiliar, but still drawn in concern as he trips over an apology to Keith. Keith can’t do much but offer a bloody smile and a grunt. He thinks some teeth might be loose. It’s hard to tell because his entire jaw is on fire. 

“It didn’t catch his neck,” Shiro says and Keith is confused by it until he realizes the words are for the Hacker and not him. 

“Shame to get your pretty face all cut up, Mullet!” Lance calls out as he opens the boards. Shiro lets him go finally as Keith steps over the threshold and onto the matted floor. Two of the trainers come forward to inspect the damage and frown over Keith. 

“Come on, we’ll need to take you back to the room for this one, Kogane,” one of them says. 

“But —” Keith says, looking back to the ice where the refs already have another face-off ready to go. 

“But nothing,” the trainer grunts at him. “You need stitches. We can discuss getting back out there for next period after we’ve got you sewed up and in a cage.”

Keith doesn’t really have a choice after that, both of trainers flanking him as he walks down the tunnel and to the small staging area for medical stuff. The stitches might be worse than the original cut and although Keith sits quietly for them, he hisses several curses out loud and even more in his head. By the time they’re done with him and have the blood mostly cleaned off his face and jersey, the 2 nd period is over and the rest of the team is flooding down the hallway. 

“All good, Kogane?” a few of them ask on the way past and Keith nods back at them, holding the ice pack to his face and reluctantly waiting for the cage mask he’ll be stuck in for the 3 rd . 

“How is it?” Shiro asks. He’s the last one down the tunnel and is frowning at Keith’s face. 

“Nothing he won’t live through,” the trainer answers when Keith does nothing but shrug. 

Keith thanks the trainer before following Shiro down the hallway to the locker room. 

“You okay to play?” Shiro asks lowly right before they walk into the room. 

“M’fine.”

“Keith.”

“I am.”

Shiro sighs but doesn’t argue the point. He’s always known how to pick his battles with Keith. There’s a scattered round of applause as Keith comes into the room and he nods at the guys. He’s rewarded by a sharp pain in his jaw that makes his eyes sting, but he blinks it away as he ducks his head and goes to his stall.

After a round of rapid-fire questions from the coaching staff, Keith is cleared to get back out for the 3 rd . He hates wearing the stupid cage helmet after the relative freedom of the visor, but it’s not the huge disadvantage a lot of the guys make it out to be. He scores on his first shift back on the ice, a sneaky wrap-around that causes the Hacker’s goalie to swear colorfully at him. 

The crowd roars to life at the goal and Keith wants to smile but doesn’t. It’s just that every facial movement hurts like hell at the moment. The guys don’t crash into him like normal for a celly, but just gently drift his way and pat him on the head, taking their cue from Shiro who reaches him first. 

They win 3-1 with another goal coming from Lance late in the third. The game winner is Keith’s though and it feels good,  _ really good _ , when Hunk bestows the MVP helmet on him in the locker room after the game. 

“Keith, you seem to really be finding your stride with the Paladins,” a reporter asks him as soon as he can get near enough with a mic. “Does it feel that way to you?”

Keith swallows and nods before catching Shiro’s eye across the room and clearing his throat. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “It’s been good. I think things are going well.”

Shiro smiles at him even though he’s definitely too far away to have actually heard Keith’s answer. Keith would probably blush at that, but his skin is already so flushed from the game, he doesn’t think anyone would notice anyways. He snaps his attention away from Shiro and back to the growing crowd of journalists who all want to ask him variations of the same question. 

For the first time, after the media leaves, he doesn’t feel the need to drown himself in the shower. 

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  


“You think it’ll scar?” Keith asks Shiro later as they sit in Keith’s hotel room. Keith is mostly joking, but his fingers still touch at the neatly bandaged wound anyways. After the media had finished with him, Abrams, the trainer, had come back and re-done the stitches more carefully.

Shiro chuckles, which probably means yes. 

The rest of the team had disappeared into the hotel bar, but Shiro hadn’t given Keith room to join them even if he had wanted to. 

Keith thinks this is probably better than the bar anyways, even if he is still riding the high of all the attention (and probably the painkillers Abrams had given him). They have a movie playing quietly on the small TV in the room but neither of them are paying much attention. Shiro is scrolling through his phone with the small frown of concentration that he always gets when looks at his phone too long and Keith is content to just rest against his pillows and ride his high out. 

“How many of those pills did Abrams slip you?” Shiro asks, as if reading Keith’s mind.

Keith lets his head loll to the side and grins at Shiro. 

“Enough.”

Shiro snorts and puts his phone aside. 

“Let me see,” he says and reaches over to Keith’s face without really waiting for the go ahead. Keith lets him look. His fingers are gentle as they move the bandage aside and he looks at what Keith knows is a pretty ugly wound, already purple and green around the edges and bright pink where the skin had been sliced. “Not as bad as it could have been,” Shiro says. 

Keith shrugs. 

Shiro doesn’t take his hand away, still looking at Keith’s face. Keith takes the moment to look back, his eyes tracking the small frown that Shiro still has and the wrinkle between his eyes that tells Keith he’s more worried about the injury than he’s said. When Shiro starts to take his hand back, Keith reaches up and catches hold of it without thinking. He holds it to his chest. Shiro sighs and shifts sideways onto the stacked pillows so he’s fully facing Keith now, no longer pretending to watch the TV. Keith tightens his grip and Shiro shifts closer, his forehead falling on Keith’s shoulder. 

Keith sinks down further into bed and rests his own head on Shiro’s. He lets their joined hands drop to his lap where it’s a less awkward angle and Shiro blinks hazily at him. 

“I should go,” he says softly, but makes no move to actually get out of Keith’s bed. 

Keith exhales and instead of responding out loud, he turns on his side and buries his head in Shiro’s chest, ignoring the flash of pain when his chin slides against the pillowcase. Shiro hesitates only a moment before his arm comes to rest on Keith’s hip, pulling him even closer. Keith makes a tiny sound of contentment that he tries to muffle in the pillow, but the huff of Shiro’s laughter tells him he’s unsuccessful.

“You’re so high,” Shiro murmurs. 

Keith doesn’t bother denying it, just enjoys the moment of physical closeness, Shiro’s body warm and comforting where it touches his. He drifts off to sleep like that, his face pressed close against Shiro’s t-shirt. 

When he wakes up, Shiro is gone, but it doesn’t feel like a loss especially when Shiro finds him at breakfast and ruffles his hair before sitting down next to him, closer than normal, his thigh skimming against Keith’s all morning. 

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

 

The Paladins coast into their playoff berth easily, well above the fray of the two wildcard spots. Coach starts to shut down the top line’s minutes as the last five games of the season loom ahead of them and every time he sends the other lines over the boards instead of Keith, Shiro and Lance, Keith has to grind his teeth and remind himself that he could use the rest. 

Shiro is always close, usually with a hand on Keith’s shoulder as if to remind Keith to keep his cool, but Keith can feel his frustration too. They all want to play, even when it means next to nothing.

Keith finally gets roped into plans with Hunk and Lance that he can’t talk his way out as the season barrels to an end. Shiro, the traitor, ducks out with the excuse of an extra physical therapy session, leaving Keith alone with his two teammates.

“It’ll be good for you,” Shiro had laughed when Keith pulled a face at his excuse. “You should be getting to know all the guys on the team better now that you’re an Alternate.”

“Temporary alternate,” Keith had muttered but to no avail.

So, Sunday evening after an early matinee game, he follows Hunk’s car to a house in the Hills. Hunk insists on cooking himself, which means that half the night, he’s bent over the stovetop and half-listening as Keith and Lance work their way through several beers each. 

“Hey, Keith, you remember Coran’s goddaughter?” Lance asks after they are well and truly drunk. 

“Um,” Keith says. “No?”

“Tall, beautiful brown skin, awesome hair?” Lance prompts. 

Keith blinks back at him and takes a swig of beer.

“Sorry,” he says. “No.”

“ _ How _ could you forget a face like hers? How?” Lance says. “Hunk, are you listening to this?”

“Point, Lance,” Hunk says, barely looking up from his saucepan.

Keith’s stomach grumbles as he catches a waft of whatever it is that Hunk has simmering. 

“Almost ready, man?” he asks Hunk.

Hunk grunts in what Keith hopes is a ‘yes’.

“The  _ point  _ is,” Lance continues as if Keith had said nothing at all. “Her name is Allura Alfor and she plays.”

Keith glances to Lance in confusion. He’s definitely missing a piece of whatever it is Lance is trying to say because Lance is looking back at him with a triumphant expression as if Keith should be impressed by that.

“Uh, plays?”

“Unbelievable.” Lance throws his palms on the table. “Kogane, you’re fucking unbelievable.”

“Hey, Lance buddy,” Hunk sing-songs. “Can I remind you that you yourself only learned this last week?”

“Beside the point!”

Keith takes another long pull of beer. 

“She plays on the Sirens. The WNHL league up in Seattle,” Lance says.

“Ah,” Keith says. “Cool.”

“More than fucking cool,” Lance says and suddenly, he’s nearly swooning. “She’s a beast on the ice, man. Leads the league in scoring.”

Keith looks desperately over to Hunk who is clearly laughing as he stirs one of his pots. He offers zero support to Keith, letting him dangle in the awkward moment by himself. 

“So, you…uh, talked to her then?” Keith fumbles the question.

“Talked to her?” Lance says. “God, no. I just finally found her Instagram.”

Keith kind of wants to switch to vodka. 

Luckily, before he can ask if Hunk has any, Hunk bangs his wooden spoon on an empty hanging pot and announces dinner is ready. It’s a hearty pasta with plenty of broccoli in the sauce that tastes like heaven and, even better, gets Lance to talk about something other than his crush.

“So, you and Shiro,” Hunk says after a comfortable silence falls on the table. “You sure there’s nothing there?”

Keith’s brain refuses to process the question and he blinks back at Hunk. 

“Nothing where?” Keith asks. 

Hunk sighs heavily as if Keith has disappointed him. Lance reaches over and slaps Hunk on the shoulder with a caw of a laugh. 

“Keith, no offense, but have you ever even considered romantic feelings towards anyone?” Lance asks and Keith is a little confused at the sudden change in topic, frowning at the question before he eventually shrugs. 

“Leave him alone,” Hunk says. “Keith, we want you to know that you aren’t defined by your sexual desires here.”

“We’re just curious! You never even look twice at anyone and I mean, Shiro is your ‘best friend’.”

Lance wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and the disjointed ends of the conversation are slowly coming together in Keith’s beer-thick head. 

“I…so, you think I’m gay just because Shiro is my best friend?” he asks, squinting at them both.

“No!”

“No, wait —”

Hunk and Lance both scramble to talk over each other until Keith raises up a hand to stop them. 

“Just…stop,” Keith says. 

Their mouths click closed with almost comical precision. 

“It’s…uh…fine? I guess?” Keith says. “I mean, I’ve never really…uh. Labeled myself. But I guess ‘gay’ is fine?”

Keith wants to kick himself for the tortured way that sentence came out, but the two men across from him are nodding emphatically as though it had made sense. He’s doubtful it actually did; they’re just eager to be done with the whole conversation probably. Keith clears his throat.

“I guess, most of the time I’m not really interested at all,” he says, surprising even himself.

Hunk looks politely puzzled now,  but is still nodding. Lance is frowning at him. 

“At all?” Lance asks.

Keith can feel himself flushing and kills the last of the beer in front of him. He shrugs as best he can and purses his lips.

It’s impossible not to think of Shiro when he says that, because if he’s not usually interested in anyone at all, Shiro is the exception. Keith hasn’t stopped thinking of kissing him since it happened, even though he knows it will probably never happen again.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Not usually.”

“Huh,” Hunk says. “So, like, the complete opposite of Loverboy Lance over here, then?”

Hunk catches Lance around the neck and gives him a noogie, nearly knocking the table sideways with the force of it. Lance sputters in the hold and kicks himself free so he can pat his hair down. 

“Yeah.” Keith smiles with something like relief. “I guess so.”

 

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

  
  
  


They have a four day break after the last game of the season before their first series starts and Keith wants nothing more than to hole up in his bedroom and sleep through them. The playoffs are a war of attrition and his body is already tired. He needs all the rest he can get.

Shiro is less of a layabout, usually on a mat in the living room doing some of his physical therapy exercises. Keith joins him one afternoon from the couch where he watches a replay of a game against the Aeros, their first round matchup, and takes mental notes on who he’ll be matching up against. Shiro has finished his exercise for the day and is switching between the tape Keith put on and his phone.

Keith hisses when the small Shiro on the TV whiffs on what should have been an easy backhand. It’s his hand, made all the more clear to Keith when the camera zooms in to the TV Shiro’s grim expression. It probably isn’t obvious to anyone that doesn’t know what to look for, but Keith catches every flex and grimace as TV Shiro skates off the ice during the break. 

“I still haven’t made a decision about what happens after this season,” the real Shiro says beside him.

“What do you mean?” Keith asks, attention still mostly on the TV, but he turns to look back at Shiro. 

Shiro flexes his hand and Keith frowns, catching his meaning a beat too late. Keith mutes the TV and turns more fully towards Shiro. 

“You’re not going anywhere, Shiro,” Keith says. “Your hand is doing better and you’ve got years ahead of you.”

Shiro doesn’t respond right away, but after a minute he shifts and leans forward across the space to grab Keith’s hand and squeeze it, not letting go, his hand soft and warm on top of Keith’s. Keith stares down at their joined hands. 

“Besides,” Keith continues when it’s clear that Shiro isn’t saying anything. “I told you. We can just tape your hand to the stick.”

When Shiro laughs, his hand shakes on top of Keith’s. He flips his hand over, so his palms are both facing up and Keith, hesitating for a beat, slides both of his on top, looking up to meet Shiro’s dark, thoughtful eyes when he does. 

“Keith,” Shiro murmurs. 

Keith licks his lips, his mouth suddenly bone dry. He’s not sure what’s happening exactly except that something from one moment to the next has shifted. Shiro’s thumb runs along Keith’s knuckles. It feels electric and infinitely soothing at the same time and Keith has no idea how to reconcile it. Shiro has always been tactile but this is different.

Shiro is quiet, but he doesn’t look confused when Keith slides across the couch toward him. Anticipating his moves always, Shiro shifts his back and to the side so he’s facing Keith, looking up at him with a thoughtful expression. 

“Tell me if I’m out of line,” Keith says, almost a whisper. 

He lifts a hand to Shiro’s face and Shiro leans into the touch with a sigh, his eyes sliding shut. Keith, emboldened, moves closer. He matches his breathing to Shiro’s deep, calm breaths. Shiro’s eyes flutter open and he smiles at Keith. He turns his face to press a kiss into Keith’s palm and Keith’s heart squeezes violently in his chest.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a stubborn ass about things?” Shiro asks. His eyes are teasing and he’s got a hold of Keith’s hand on his face, so Keith is stuck to the spot.

“Pretty much everyone I’ve ever met,” Keith says. 

Shiro laughs, his shoulders shaking just once with it before pulling Keith suddenly towards him and pressing their mouths together in a warm kiss. Keith makes a small sound of surprise, but Shiro swallows it, his tongue pushing into Keith’s mouth and his hands pulling Keith closer until Keith is pressed against his chest. Keith wraps both arms around Shiro, who pulls Keith fully into his lap. After a minute of completely melting Keith’s brain with his lips, Shiro slows the kiss and pulls away, but doesn’t let go of where he has a hold of Keith’s waist. 

“So,” Keith says, but then doesn’t know how to continue. He feels a blush on the back of his neck and hates it. 

“So,” Shiro echoes. His hand comes up to cup Keith’s face, running along the still livid red, but healed scar from weeks ago. 

Keith waits. He lets Shiro’s fingers run gently along the curve of his jaw and then down his neck. When Shiro kisses him again, his lips are certain against Keith’s, moving with purpose and skill.  

Shiro picks him up with a single motion and Keith mostly falls backwards in his haste to get horizontal as Shiro maneuvers them. Shiro laughs breathily as he joins Keith, pressing him down the couch and continuing to kiss him senseless. Keith doesn’t care though, just smiles into the kiss, laughing together with Shiro and letting the warmth bubble through him until his toes curl with pleasure. 

The kisses eventually slow down until Shiro breaks away to nuzzle into Keith’s neck and then rolls slightly to the side, teetering dangerously on the edge of the wide couch until Keith turns on his side too and Shiro presses in, his arm under Keith’s head and his lips ghosting along Keith’s throat. They lay together like that for a long time, sharing breath more than kissing. Keith stares into Shiro’s heavily lidded dark eyes and is surprised to see the raw affection staring back at him. 

“Hi,” Shiro whispers. 

“Hey.” Keith swallows, nerves jumping into his throat at the quiet moment. Then, before he can stop himself from ruining the quiet moment, he says, “Don’t think this means I forgot about the retirement bullshit.”

Shiro barks in laughter and almost falls from the couch, but Keith catches hold of him. 

“No, I guess not,” he says. Then, he grows serious and tilts his head forward until their faces brush against each other and his breath fans against Keith’s skin. “You’ve always cared so much about me.”

Keith is knocked sideways.

Shiro’s lips flutter against his, barely there, his eyes soft as he looks at Keith with an almost unbearable softness about him. 

“Sometimes, I don’t know if I even deserve you as a friend, you know?” Shiro says. “Much less…”

Keith lets out a single, dry laugh and curls in closer to Shiro, tucking his head into Shiro’s chest. Shiro hugs him back, his exhale heavy and relieved. 

“Shiro,” Keith mumbles into his chest. “You’re everything to me.  _ Everything _ . I didn’t recognize it for what it was for so long because…you’ve just…you’ve always been everything. You walked into my life and everything changed.”

“Skated,” Shiro says, his voice barely a murmur in Keith’s ear. Keith lifts is head up to see Shiro’s face.

“What?”

“Technically, I skated into your life.”

Keith groans. 

“Fuck, you’re the worst.”

He pushes against Shiro until they’ve re-arranged again on the couch and Keith is on top of Shiro, one knee wedged deep into the couch and the other nearly off the edge, his foot touching down to balance himself as he hovers over Shiro. Shiro’s hands, confident and strong, glide up Keith’s hips and pull him down until Keith settles and then slowly guide Keith’s face back to his. The kiss this time is slow, molten, all of the rush from a few minutes ago gone. 

Keith wants to memorize the way it makes him feel, just in case it never happens again. Shiro’s lips are dry, but soft against his and his tongue is hot when it flicks into his mouth, a sensation that sends Keith’s entire body into waves of arousal. 

“Want you,” Keith says, his lips still pressed to Shiro’s, voice barely above a whisper. Shiro’s arms tighten around him and Keith can’t help but grind his hips down, desperately seeking some sort of friction against his growing erection. Shiro groans and his hand slips under Keith’s thin t-shirt, spanning across his bare skin. 

“Fuck,” Shiro says softly before nudging his face into the crook of Keith’s neck and kissing there. Keith shudders against him. The next thing Shiro says is an order. “Bed.”

Keith doesn’t hesitate to comply. He strips off his shirt as he stands and heads straight to Shiro’s room, pausing only when he reaches the door to look back at Shiro. Shiro slings an arm around his waist and covers Keith’s hand on the doorknob before turning it and gently pushing Keith inside. Keith lets himself be pushed.

Shiro seems to be in no hurry to get any more clothes off, but Keith tugs at Shiro’s shirt, impatient enough for the both of them. Shiro finally lets him drag it over his head with a laugh before diving down to kiss Keith again, his bare skin deliciously warm against Keith’s. 

Keith feels like his brain is going to fizzle out. Is this what kissing felt like for most people? No wonder people liked it so much. Keith wants to never stop kissing again. He wouldn’t mind just living in Shiro’s bed from now on. 

“Fuck me,” Keith says when he finally pulls away for air. Shiro pants down at him, his hands possessive and huge on Keith’s stomach. Keith bucks his hips up and catches Shiro’s mouth for a rough, short kiss. “I want you to. Please.”

“Keith,” Shiro says, his voice is cautious but his eyes, hazy with lust, give him away. “We don’t have to —”

“Shiro, please,” Keith says. He grabs at Shiro and slides against him. Shiro groans into his mouth as Keith begins to unbutton his pants and push them down. Shiro kicks them off before quickly pulling Keith’s off as well. “Want you,” is all Keith can say again, but it does the trick. Shiro is off of him and reaching for his nightstand in seconds, fumbling through the drawer until he comes back with lube and a condom which he throws on the bed. 

His hand is steady as Keith watches him pop the lid and drip some of the lube onto his fingers. Keith wonders how many men he’s had in his bed, but then just as quickly decides it doesn’t matter because right then, he’s the one in Shiro’s bed. Shiro slides a hand up Keith’s thigh to rest on his hip and squeezes.

“Relax,” he says, his voice lulling as he leans down and kisses Keith’s chest, his lips lingering across his abs and and down the strong line of his hip. Keith forces his breath to be steady as he feels Shiro’s finger flutter against his hole, testing. He pushes in slowly and Keith can’t help the small gasp that escapes him at the rough sensation. Shiro is gentle and slow, murmuring small praises as Keith gasps through it until he thinks he can’t bear it any longer, then Shiro pulls his hands away. 

“Still okay?” Shiro asks as he wipes his hand on the t-shirt he’s fished off the floor and throws it back. 

Keith nods. The truth is, his body aches in ways it never has before, but it’s a strange, welcome kind of ache. An ache he wants to keep chasing until it feels good. He re-settles himself on the bedspread, letting his legs fall wide open and stares at Shiro. He licks his lips as Shiro finally reaches for the condom and rolls it on. 

“I can stop whenever you need me to,” Shiro says as he lines himself up. His cock feels huge against Keith’s hole and Keith cants his hips up, wanting Shiro to get on with it already, wanting anything at all. 

“I won’t,” Keith says. His voice is scratchy and deep with arousal and he laughs at the sound of it, but it comes out as a breathy sigh instead as Shiro presses in, stretching him wider. Keith groans and throws his head back. He clutches the sheets with his hands, twisting them up as Shiro slowly goes deeper. Shiro’s lips never leave his skin, pressing soft words into Keith’s sweat-slicked body.

“You’re so…” Shiro says and he looks up to catch Keith’s eye as he trails off. Keith lets go of the breath he’s been holding, letting himself relax into the bed as Shiro stops moving. “Beautiful.”

Keith looks away, suddenly embarrassed, but Shiro’s hand gently guides his face back. 

“You are,” Shiro says. He snaps his hips forward and Keith’s eyes roll back at the sparks of pleasure that fizz through him. 

“Shiro,” he says. Then softer, “Takashi, please.”

Shiro kisses him, bruising in its intensity and his hips begin to slowly roll, every movement electric inside of Keith. He can’t tell if it hurts anymore because it feels so fucking good that he’s completely lost in the drag of Shiro’s dick as it moves inside of him. When he comes, it’s a surprise to both of them, splashing up on his chin and across Shiro’s chest. Shiro stops his steady thrusts and Keith whines, grabbing hold of his ass and pressing him on.

“Keep going,” he says. 

“Keith,” Shiro groans but complies. It only takes a few more thrusts until Shiro is coming too. He buries his nose in Keith’s neck when he does and the small moan of release is something that Keith is going to have tucked in his memory forever. Keith holds him there, refusing to let go of the moment until he has to and Shiro seems to be in no rush either. They’re both breathing heavy and dripping sweat, but Keith isn’t sure if he’s ever felt so good. 

“We should do that more often,” he says, mostly into the top of Shiro’s head. Shiro’s shoulders shake in silent laughter as he rolls off of Keith and flings his arms wide. He’s smiling, a huge grin of a smile that Keith rarely sees anymore. Keith props himself up on one elbow and smiles back. “What? We should.”

“Give me a couple hours at least,” Shiro says. He slaps Keith’s thigh playfully, but doesn’t let go, sliding it around his leg and using it to pull Keith nearly on top of him. His lips are lazy and soft when he kisses Keith this time and Keith feels weighted down and solid as he presses in for as much contact as possible. 

“Old man,” Keith jokes even as his own eyes droop. 

Shiro shoves him away with a laugh and swings to sitting so he can tie off the condom and throw it away in the small waste bin beside his nightstand. Keith watches as he gets up and goes to his bathroom, not fully closing the door behind him. Keith is already drifting off when the surprise of a wet washcloth brushing against his skin startles him awake. Shiro is biting down a smile as he gently cleans Keith up until Keith swats him away and takes the washcloth himself. 

Shiro slides into bed beside him and lays back on the pillows as Keith wipes his neck off and finally throws the washcloth over the side of the bed with their clothes. Shiro looks fucked out and satisfied, his tousled white hair fanning across the pillow and Keith twists down to kiss him lightly, just once. He feels suddenly shy and unsure of himself as he sits beside Shiro in the bed they just fucked in. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Keith asks. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, voice warm and openly affectionate, soothing a hurt that Keith didn’t even know he had. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keith is shiro-sexual send tweet


	6. bottle rocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playoffs start brutal and don’t get any prettier.

Playoffs start brutal and don’t get any prettier. Keith comes out of the first round with what’s likely two broken ribs and the Paladins scrape through an unexpectedly tough match-up against the Lions. Keith tries not to let anyone see how black and purple his torso really is; he doesn’t want to risk getting benched for it. 

Shiro is not happy about it, but doesn’t stand in Keith’s way. His hands are gentle at night when they touch him at all, both of them too exhausted and overwhelmed by the series to actually fuck. It’s usually just kisses and careful spooning. Keith both aches for more and can barely stand to be touched, even by Shiro. His entire body is one giant house of cards that feels ready to collapse at any moment if he loses focus on hockey. 

“When the playoffs are over, can we go somewhere? Just the two of us?” Keith asks one night after he’s carefully lowered himself into bed. It would probably be better if he slept in his own bed, especially considering both of their various injuries, but neither of them have gone so far to suggest it and Keith isn’t going to be the one to do it. 

“S’bad luck to talk about that before we’re out,” Shiro slurs beside him. His hand comes up to stroke through Keith’s hair and Keith sighs, letting his eyes drift closed. They’re barely touching, might as well be in separate beds really with the amount of heating pads between them, but Shiro’s touch on his forehead is grounding. “But yeah, we can. Anywhere you want.”

Keith hums in approval.

They haven’t really talked about what it is they’re doing. Playoffs began in earnest only days after they first consummated whatever it is, but…Shiro holds Keith’s hand at night until they both fall asleep and Keith isn’t sure what that means, but he likes it. 

In the morning, Keith wakes up before the alarm to Kosmo licking his hand. He pulls it away and squints at the unapologetic dog who takes Keith’s open eyes as his permission to jump on the bed and directly on Keith’s bruised hip.

“Oof,” Keith grunts. “What the fuck, Kosmo.”

He does his best to push the dog off the bed, but Shiro is already stirring next to him. 

“Go back to sleep,” Keith orders, his voice still rough. “It’s just the dumb dog. You’ve got time.”

“I can take him out,” Shiro says, but his face is still half-buried in a pillow. 

Keith tosses his own pillow on top of Shiro’s head, burying him.

“Sleep,” he orders and pulls himself out of bed, shepherding a dancing Ksomo out of the room as quickly as he can manage before Shiro gets himself out of bed. He needs the rest more than Keith and Keith feels like death warmed over. 

“Fucking dog,” he mutters even as he clips a lead on Kosmo and slides on his shoes. “Should’ve left you in Philly.”

Kosmo yelps, as if offended by Keith. Keith pulls a face back at him. 

“Alright, alright,” he says. “Let’s go, you terrorist.”

 

_X_  * _X_ * _X_  

 

It’s shit luck that gets them matched up with the Blades for the Second Round. Any other year and the Tornados would have steamrolled them, but the wheels came off the Tornados’ defense right as the playoffs took off and the Blades snatched victory from the jaws of defeat late in Game 7. The only bright side is that at least Keith has some insider information - their line-up is essentially unchanged since they traded Keith earlier in the season. 

“She’s here!” Lance hisses at him as soon as he walks in to the arena on the day of Game 1 of the Second Round. 

“What?”

“Her! She’s here!” Lance says. His eyes are wide and wild.

Keith looks around helplessly until he sees Hunk and waves him down. 

“Uh, little help here, Hunk?” Keith asks. 

“Allura just showed up with Coran and they’re doing a quick tour with the social media folks,” Hunk says. “Loverboy over here completely choked up even though Coran gave him a golden opening.”

Lance squawks beside Keith, but his gloomy pout speaks volumes.

“Ah,” Keith says.

“You have to talk to her,” Lance says to Keith. “Tell her I’m cool.”

Keith rolls his eyes. 

“Tell her yourself.” 

“Please Keith,” Lance says. “You’re cool. She’ll believe you.”

“Aw, Lance, you think I’m cool,” Keith deadpans before turning away.

Lance grabs his arm and pouts at him. 

“Keith, I never ask you for anything!” 

Keith would beg to differ, but the pitch of desperation in Lance’s voice is somehow more convincing than it should be. 

“Wow, buddy, that’s a lot to trust Keith with,” Hunk says. “Maybe he’ll just take her for himself. He’s awful pretty.”

Lance snaps his attention to Hunk and then back to Keith. Keith holds up his both hands. 

“Uh, not my type,” he says. 

He and Shiro haven’t really talked about announcing their relationship to the team, but Keith isn’t going to be the one to tell the nosy fuckers about his personal life, so it was up to Shiro. 

“Right,” Lance says, obviously still sizing Keith up. He puffs out his chest and stands to his full height, just an inch or so taller than Keith. “Besides, I’m much better looking. Mullet over here might be pretty, but I’m  _ classically handsome _ .”

Hunk snorts loudly and Keith can’t manage to keep a lid on his laughter either. 

Lance sulks obviously at both of them. 

Keith fights not to roll his eyes again and instead looks down at his shoes, faking a cough. 

“So this, uh…woman,” Keith starts and then squints at Hunk who is mouthing her name behind Lance’s back. “Alaina?”

“Allura,” Lance sighs and the dreamy, far-off look returns to his face.

“Right, Allura,” Keith says. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Really?!”

“But only if you get more points than me tonight,” Keith adds. 

Hunk laugh fills the entire hallway with its volume and he slaps the wall as he gets control of it. Lance, on the other hand, looks like he’s just swallowed a lemon. Keith grins at him, knowing he’s just set something terrible and wonderful into motion. Lance is at his best and worst when he is in direct competition with someone else.

“You’re on, Kogane,” Lance says, waving his finger at Keith. “I can beat you easy.”

“We’ll see,” Keith says. 

Keith finds Shiro in the training room, warming up on a bike, and joins him in blessed silence. Shiro is quiet and focused on his pre-game routine, but he throws Keith a warm smile before turning back to his monitor. Keith smiles back, feeling an almost instant hit of relief at just having Shiro beside him again even though they’ve only been separated for an hour or so.

When Shiro gets off his bike, he leans against the wall and waits for Keith before they walk back to the locker room together. 

“How’re you feeling?” Shiro asks while they’re still mostly alone. 

Keith winces, his brain flashing to the locker room full of former teammates that are waiting to hit the ice and grind him into the boards later that night. 

“Good,” he lies.

Shiro smiles because the lie is obvious, but he doesn’t call Keith on his bullshit. Instead he just grabs Keith’s hand, squeezing it quickly before letting go and leading the way into the locker room. Keith sits in the stall next to Shiro and closes his eyes, counting backwards from ten as he tries to get his head in the right space. 

When he opens them, Shiro is frowning down at his bad hand, flexing it slowly. Keith watches the joints obey Shiro, but can see the pain it causes Shiro in the sharp lines of concern that crowd around his eyes. 

“Need some tape for your hand?” Keith asks. It’s supposed to be a joke, but his voice comes out flat. 

Shiro winces. He flexes his hand and winces again before shaking his head.

“Don’t think that’s regulation.” 

Keith pulls a face at him, but goes back to his laces.

Shiro sighs and rocks a little on the bench next to Keith before standing up and pulling out more of his gear. Keith watches him slide it on through the corner of his eye, trying not to be obvious, but he knows it’s a lost cause. Shiro always seems to know when Keith is watching. 

“I’m fine,” Shiro says. “I would tell you if I wasn’t.”

Keith hums neutrally. 

“Keith.”

Keith looks up and frowns at him. 

“Do what you have to do,” Keith snaps and then immediately feels guilty, sliding his eyes away. 

Shiro sighs again, but this time it’s softer. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats. 

“I know.” Keith hates lying. 

 

_X_  * _X_ * _X_  

 

Mitchy from the Blades has a target drawn on Shiro’s back and is intent on crushing him into the boards at every opportunity. Shiro skates wide, but that means Lance and Keith are scrambling to dig pucks out of the corners and their line is held to zero goals in the first two games. Their third line steals a win for the Paladins in Game 2, so at least they split the first two games. It’s maddening, but they finally get a break in Game 3 with home ice advantage and match-ups in their favor. 

Game 3 feels like the first breath of fresh air in the series with the Paladins crushing the Blades in a 7-1 blowout that leads to two goals for Keith and one each for Shiro and Lance. It’s a good fucking night. 

When they get home that night, Shiro’s hands are worshipful as he strips Keith out of his clothes and slowly fucks him into the mattress. Keith feels boneless and satisfied when they finally roll away from each other. When he looks over at Shiro, still catching his breath with a hand splayed wide on his own chest, Keith is struck by how much he loves him. It’s not something that Keith knows how to put into words and he knows if he tried, he’d fuck it up. Instead, he takes Shiro’s left hand and carefully weaves their fingers together before kissing each of Shiro’s knuckles individually. 

Shiro sighs next to him and turns on his side to smile sleepily at Keith. 

“You were amazing today,” Shiro says and it’s probably the tenth time he’s said it in the past hour, but Keith still flushes at it and looks away. Shiro squeezes his fingers loosely before nuzzling his face into the dip in Keith’s neck. His breath there is hot and sticky, but Keith wouldn’t dream of moving him. 

“Did you set an alarm?” Keith asks instead. 

He can feel Shiro’s smile even though he can’t see it. Shiro kisses his neck before rolling away and sitting up to reach for his phone. Keith studies his back in the soft moonlit room and his eyes catalogue new bruises and scratches that criss-cross Shiro’s body. He knows his own body is just as much of a war zone. 

Shiro pulls the curtains closed while he’s up, plunging the room into almost total darkness. When he gets back in bed, Keith reaches out blindly until his fingers slide across Shiro’s stomach, his abs tighter than ever since the playoffs have burned away any thought of fat. Keith knows his body is even leaner.

“Shiro,” he says into the dark. Shiro’s hand comes up to cover where Keith’s is on his stomach. The words Keith wants to say stick in his throat and he swallows around them, his mouth moving without sound. Shiro waits patiently, like he always does. “You did good today.”

It’s fucking dumb and Keith knows it but Shiro makes a small, pleased noise in the back of his throat and his fingers dance along the side of Keith’s face until he pulls Keith in for a kiss. 

“The way you dangled that guy was so dirty,” Keith says more confidently and he hates that this is the only way he knows how to say it, but Shiro doesn’t seem to mind, kissing along his jaw with those same pleased hums of acknowledgement. “And that pass to Lance for the game-winner? Fuck, Shiro, I wanted to go down on you right on the ice.”

“I don’t know if I have a second round in me tonight,” Shiro groans. “But if you keep talking, I might.”

Keith laughs into the kiss that he presses to Shiro’s mouth and Shiro grabs him roughly to pull Keith on top of him. Shiro’s legs fall open to slot Keith perfectly there and Keith can feel that Shiro’s dick is already getting interested again. He shifts until his own cock brushes against Shiro’s and they both groan together, Keith dipping down for another kiss. 

It doesn’t take long for them to find a slow grind together, their breath mingling together where Keith hovers above Shiro. Sweat slicks both of their bodies enough for their skin to slide with only a buzz of friction. Keith buries his face in Shiro’s neck and continues murmuring praise, mostly just nonsense about how good he looks playing but Shiro is endlessly responsive to it.

“Keith,” Shiro says over and over again, Keith’s name like a prayer on his lips. 

“You’re so…God, Shiro,” Keith groans as he feels his release building in his body. He slows down his pace, squeezing his eyes shut, but Shiro whines under him and his fingers dig into Keith’s ass, dragging him back into motion. “Fuck.”

Shiro comes first, his cum hot and wet between them and his hands still urging Keith onward, grinding down on Shiro’s stomach. Keith’s orgasm comes suddenly, knocking the air right out of him with its unexpected force and he falls forward into his own mess with a groan. Shiro’s good hand slides up his back and his fingers run through Keith’s hair, pushing it back from his face so they can kiss properly. 

Keith hopes his lips convey all the feelings his words aren’t quite adequate for yet. 

 

_X_  * _X_ * _X_  

 

They need a win tonight. The series with the Blades is split 3-2 in the Paladins’ favor and a win could sew up the whole thing and move them on to their next match-up. A win will also mean a precious few days’ extra rest. They need it.

Keith can feel the nervous energy coming off in waves from the rest of his team and does his best to block it out, but his own knee is jiggling right along with all the other guys’. Except possibly Shiro who looks dialed in and ferocious as soon as he pulls his sweater on. Keith watches as Shiro quietly checks in with a few of the others until he finally circles back to Keith. Keith grimaces, because he knows Shiro can tell with just a glance that Keith isn’t focused on the game ahead.

Shiro doesn’t say anything for a moment, just rests his hand on Keith’s shoulder and squeezes. They’ve been careful not to be too open – it’s not the kind of distraction that the team needs right now. This sustained touch is nice though. Keith can feel his heartbeat slowing as he remembers to breathe.

“Be patient out there tonight,” Shiro says. “They’ll give plenty of openings so long as you wait for it.”

Keith blows out a heavy breath and nods his head.

“Patient. Got it.”

Shiro squeezes his shoulder again before letting go and getting back to his own pre-game routine. Keith finishes tightening up his laces and by then, it’s time for warm-ups. He lines up in front of Shiro, getting thumped on the back by his teammates as they each pass him by down the tunnel until it’s his turn to skate out.

Keith gets his best chance to score early in the second period and buries it in the back of the net, only to have the goal called off because the goalie gave a convincing flop. His frustration mounts when none of his passes to Shiro are connecting to the point where their line gets shaken up and Keith is playing with Boros and Natter instead and it’s just  _ wrong _ .  

When they lose the game 4-1 on the heels of two fucking empty netters from the Blades, Keith nearly snarls at Lance when he tries to commiserate on their way off the ice. He ducks his head instead and files down the hallway after the rest of the frustrated and dejected Paladins.

Shiro must have gotten off the ice before Keith because he’s already sitting in his stall when Keith gets to his. Keith throws his stick and any gear he can easily rip off with as much force as he can to the back of his own stall and gets to work unbuckling his pads.

“Keith,” Shiro says as Keith continues to strip every last piece off. His voice is quiet and something in it snaps Keith out of his fugue to look more carefully at Shiro.

“What?” he asks, still short on patience, even for Shiro.

It’s then that Keith notices that Shiro is still fully dressed and staring down at his still-gloved hand. Keith frowns and leans over Shiro with concern.  

“You need help?” he asks lowly, uncertain.

“I don’t think…” Shiro starts and then looks up and around. They’re not alone by any stretch, but no one is paying them any special attention, everyone in a bad mood after the loss. “I don’t think it’s going to come off without scissors.”

Keith bites down hard on his bottom lip and turns on his heel to find Abrams without another word. The trainer seems unsurprised when Keith practically drags him and his first aid kit back to Shiro’s stall.

“Let’s take this somewhere more private,” Abrams says almost as soon as his fingers gently slide up Shiro’s wrist, along his pulse point. His mouth is twisted in grim concentration. Keith goes to follow them, but Abram pushes him back down onto the bench. “Hit the showers, Kogane. I don’t need an audience or your help for this part.”

Keith throws Abrams an annoyed look and opens his mouth to snap back, but Shiro shakes his head as he stands, cradling his injured hand to his chest.

“Go, Keith,” he says softly. “It’s fine. I’ll find you after.”

Keith huffs at that, but does go. He’s in and out of the shower long before Abrams is done with Shiro and he spends the wait time gathering up their stuff haphazardly into their respective gear bags. He hauls Shiro’s half-empty one just outside the room they’ve sequestered him in to keep away prying eyes. There had been no media allowed in the room after the game, but arena staff were crawling all over the place. 

Keith scowls at anyone who comes near the door to the room.

He’s leaning against the wall pretending to be on his phone when the door finally opens and Abrams sticks his head out. When he sees Keith lurking there, he rolls his eyes.

“Right where you said he’d be,” Abrams says over his shoulder and opens the door wider for Keith. Then, turning back to Keith, “You driving the both of you home?”

Keith nods curtly. His eyes are busy taking in the fresh medical tape wrapped around Shiro’s hand and the sling they’ve put his arm in. Shiro’s face is blank, but Keith can see the dull remnants of whatever pain pill they’d given him in his dark eyes.

“Don’t worry, Abrams,” Shiro says, his voice wry despite the situation. “He’ll be the mother hen from hell as soon we’re alone.”

Abrams stops just short of rolling his eyes again, but reaches around the cot Shiro’s sitting on and grabs a notepad. He writes down an address and time and then shoves it at Keith.

“You make sure he gets here tomorrow by 9 A.M. Drive him yourself, shove him in an Uber, just get him there, ok? We need to have new scans done.”

“Do you think it’s broken?” It’s the first thing that Keith has managed to say since he was allowed inside.

Abrams frowns and taps the piece of paper.

“We’ll find out tomorrow.”

  
  


_X_  * _X_ * _X_  

 

Shiro’s name isn’t in the line-up. 

Keith knew it wouldn’t be, but still, when Natter’s kid gets up on one of the benches and calls out the lines, it sends a ripple through the room when Shiro isn’t right up there with Keith and Lance on the first. Everyone in the room is quiet and Shiro sits there, grimacing in a suit that looks too big on him after all the weight he’s lost through the grind of the playoffs, his arm in a sling. 

Keith focuses on one thing at a time. Tape. Laces. Jersey. It’s the only way to keep the bile down. 

Shiro’s name isn’t in the line-up. 

The biggest game of Keith’s life so far and Shiro won’t be on the ice with him. 

Lance lines up behind him and is uncharacteristically quiet. He bumps his stick against Keith’s though and gives him a quick nod before they hit the ice for warm-ups. The crowd is a screaming blur of faces pressed against the glass and Keith is too busy trying not to vomit to even look twice at them. 

He’s the first off the ice and Shiro is waiting for him in the hallway with a tight hug. Keith’s skates make him almost as tall as Shiro and it’s a strange angle, but it’s still Shiro holding him. Keith doesn’t hear what he says - it’s still too loud even in the tunnel, but he nods and lets Shiro go to greet the other guys as they come off the ice. Shiro grabs his sleeve before he can get too far and Keith reels around. 

“Stay!” Shiro yells above the noise. “Let the guys know you care!”

Keith pulls a face at Shiro. He feels like it’s pretty damn obvious that he cares, but Shiro just smiles and claps him on the shoulder before there’s a spurt of guys coming off the ice and slapping hands with Shiro. Keith reluctantly holds out a fist to bump. More than one the guys give him an unexpected hug which Keith does his best to return so his shock isn’t evident. He nods to the others and mutters a few words of encouragement.

“Keith! Buddy!” Hunk bellows as he comes off the ice. He crushes Keith in a hug that takes him off his skates. “We’re gonna fucking murder ‘em!”

“Thanks, Hunk!” Keith yells. “We got this!”

Matt Holt had gone down with a hamstring pull two games ago and Hunk had carried the Paladins through the next two games. He had looked shaky in his first period on the ice, playing his first ever playoff minutes in the NHL, but as soon as he fielded one shot on goal, he was locked in and had been near impenetrable since. 

Hunk squeezes him again and then sets him down before waddling off down the hallway, his legs wide to accommodate his pads. 

  
  


_X_  * _X_ * _X_  

 

They lose in slow motion. It’s not any one thing, just a slow collapse that none of them can stop. It’s the worst game Keith can remember playing - nothing is connecting and on his one decent shot on goal, his stick snaps and goes flying across the ice. 

It’s just 0-1 when the final buzzer goes, but it feels like they were buried alive. 

Keith waits for Hunk to come off the ice before leaving himself and he knocks his helmet against the goalie’s. It’s not Hunk’s fault the rest of the team couldn’t get their shit together and Keith tries to tell him that, but Hunk is beyond consolation just then and Keith takes the hint to leave him be. 

Shiro is in the locker room, looking just as crushed as the rest of them. He pulls Keith into a tight hug as soon as Keith is within range and Keith sinks into the embrace, knowing that no one will look askance at it right then anyways. Shiro squeezes him tight with his one good arm and holds him until Keith pulls himself away so he can at least strip out of some of his gear before they let the press in. 

Colin from PR taps him on the shoulder and has Keith meet his contingent of reporters in the far corner of the room. They all keep their voices low like it’s some kind of funeral. 

“It seems like losing Shirogane was really the death knell for this season for you guys, would you agree?”

“Keith, what do you think next year with the Paladins will look like? Do you think you’ll be back in contention?”

“Where do you think tonight went wrong, Keith?”

“How are feeling after coming to the Paladins so late in the season and having this cup run cut short?”

The questions are endless and Keith feels like he’s drowning by the time Colin finally pulls him free. As Keith takes off the last of his gear and heads to the shower, he sees the reporters have cornered Shiro as well and Keith almost crosses the room in nothing but his towel at the miserable expression on Shiro’s face, but Shiro catches his eye just in time and shakes his head so slightly that probably only Keith notices at all. Keith frowns and watches for another minute before finally going to the shower. 

By the time he’s out, many of the guys have cleared out. It’s fine - they’ll all see each other for locker clean-out and end-of-season interviews in a couple days, but Keith feels a little unmoored at the abrupt end of the season. 

Shiro doesn’t say much as they walk down the long hallway to the parking garage and he doesn’t say much on the drive home, letting Keith break every speed limit and traffic law in town to get them home in record time. When they pull into the garage at the house, instead of getting out, Keith just leans his head against the steering wheel, listening to the car slowly cool down.

Shiro walks around the car and opens his door and when Keith still doesn’t move, he folds himself down so he is eye level with Keith.

“Come on, we’ll get straight in bed.” His voice is more vibration than words and Keith closes his eyes and knocks his head a few times against the steering wheel. His eyes are stinging with tears. He hates crying. “Keith.”

He cracks an eye open and Shiro is right there, his arm still in an uncomfortable sling and his suit crumpled from the long night. Keith just looks at him. Shiro is already getting mass back that Keith and others are sorely lacking this time of year. His face isn’t as hollow as it was even just a few days ago and his collarbone isn’t jutting out anymore. He still looks tired - Keith knows he isn’t sleeping because neither is Keith, really, except when he’s so exhausted he can’t help it, but healthier. Less like the stress is going to snap him clean through. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Keith says without thinking. “It’s not fair.”

Shiro smiles and tilts his head like Keith isn’t making sense. 

“Should I be checking for a fever?”

“You are.”

Shiro shifts closer, but knocks his head on the roof of the car. He winces visibly and Keith frowns as Shiro ducks clear of the car and stands straight again. Keith turns back to the steering wheel and reluctantly takes his keys out of the ignition. He gets out the car and lets Shiro herd him inside and straight to the bedroom. Keith collapses on the bed, not bothering to take his suit off and Shiro pads around for a moment, taking his sling off and undressing in his efficient, precise way. Normally, Keith would relish the sight even though it’s far from a striptease, but he closes his eyes instead tonight. 

When the bed dips next to him, Keith feels Shiro’s hand travel up his side, slowly parting Keith’s suit jacket from him and easing it off his shoulder. Keith allows himself to be undressed.

“You’re not even going to help a little?” Shiro asks, teasing. “I’m down to one arm right now, you know.”

Keith groans and takes another few moments before opening his eyes and pouting at Shiro. 

“I can sleep in this,” he says. 

“Keith.” 

He groans again and rolls onto his side and off the bed. He barely bothers to unbutton his shirt before slipping it, and the still knotted tie, over his head. He discards his pants and boxers in one big heap until he can fall gracelessly back into bed. 

“Jesus, Keith,” Shiro says softly. His fingers dance lightly on Keith’s hip, no doubt tracing the outline of a huge, ugly bruise that was only beginning to color from a late hit in the second period. Keith makes a noncommittal sound and digs his fingers into Shiro’s still styled hair. Shiro leans down and kisses his hip along the edge of the bruise. Keith sighs and lets his eyes flutter closed again. He feels sluggish and wrung out and Shiro’s kisses are a balm as they softly press into his skin. His dick, ever the traitor when it comes to Shiro, twitches in interest. 

Shiro’s hand wraps around Keith’s dick but then loosens immediately, halfway to a pump. 

“Okay?” Shiro asks. His breath is warm as it fans out over the crest of Keith’s hip. 

“Mmm,” is all Keith can manage. He scoots himself up further onto the pillow and blinks sleepily at Shiro. “Might fall asleep during.”

Shiro laughs softly and then kisses him before drifting back down to Keith’s cock. Shiro licks the head of it gently and it feels like heaven when his mouth, velvety and hot, closes around Keith’s dick. Shiro is as careful with his hands as if Keith were made of glass and honestly, right then, he might as well be. It’s the gentlest they’ve ever been with each other and when Keith finally comes, his orgasm is a lazy, rolling wave through him that sinks him deeper into the pillow. Shiro kisses him after, his mouth salty with the taste of Keith’s cum, and Keith hums in pleasure. 

“You?” he asks, even though he’s fading fast into sleep.

“Sleep,” Shiro says. He has his arm around Keith’s middle, but it’s loose and comfortable when he nests into the pillows beside Keith. The last thing Keith remembers is turning to kiss him again. 

 

_X_  * _X_ * _X_  

 

Kosmo loves the desert. As soon as Keith releases him from his kennel, he takes off running into the hot sandy landscape around them, barking with an unfettered enthusiasm for life that Keith hasn’t seen before. He watches from the shadows of the porch of the house they’ve rented for the month as Kosmo runs laps around the house, kicking up so much dust that by the time he flops down at Keith’s feet, his fur is a dusty brown instead of his natural black and white coat. 

“Woah, someone’s sleeping outside until they get a bath, huh?” Shiro says when he joins Keith on the porch a few hours later.

“He’ll pick a fight with every coyote in town if we leave him out here,” Keith says. He’d drifted off for a while and is still sleepy as he lays in the hammock, one leg touching down to the floor so he can gently sway.

“Guess it’s time for a B-A-T-H, then, huh, boy?” Shiro asks, but it’s in a too-sweet falsetto that’s meant for Kosmo and not Keith so Keith just waves him off and closes his eyes. He doesn’t even bother to point out to Shiro that Kosmo isn’t smart enough to understand the word ‘bath’, so there’s no need to spell it out. 

They’d arrived in Phoenix yesterday after a long two weeks of cleaning out lockers, doing end-of-season interviews, and getting their house prepared for a mostly empty summer. The trip to Phoenix had been a surprise to Keith, but despite his initial reluctance, the moment he walked outside of the airport and breathed in the thick summer air, he felt his shoulders drop in relaxation.  _ Home _ .

They were going to Greece in a few weeks after doubling back to L.A. to drop Kosmo off with Hunk and Romelle, but for now, they have a house on a relatively private drive on the edge of Phoenix and no one except their friends know where they are. 

Shiro gets Kosmo under the hose and at least passably clean before ordering dinner for them, all while Keith naps on the back porch. He kisses Keith awake when the food arrives and Keith blinks up at him and can see his life spooling out in front of him with moments just like this. 

He follows Shiro into the house where the Chinese take-out is laid out on plates and ready to eat. 

“They offered me a front office position,” Shiro says, out of nowhere, as soon as they both push aside their plates.

Keith frowns, a kneejerk reaction that he tries to hide by ducking his face.  He can’t imagine Shiro going to the arena every day in a suit, bending over paperwork, but if that’s what Shiro wants...

“I turned it down,” Shiro says, as if reading Keith’s mind. 

Keith lets go of a big breath. He knew better than anyone that this was happening even if Shiro had been close-lipped about it. Shiro’s doctors had scheduled him for another major surgery on his hand later this summer and while they hadn’t explicitly shut the door on ever playing again, Keith saw the decision in Shiro’s eyes long before he’d said it aloud. 

Keith gets up and crosses the room to pull Shiro to the couch where he arranges them both so can lean into Shiro’s stomach, burying his face in the warm fabric of Shiro’s loose t-shirt and lingering there. Shiro’s good hand cards through Keith’s hair and scratches at his scalp. Keith wraps his arms around Shiro’s middle and hugs him, his face still buried in Shiro’s stomach. 

“When did this happen?” Keith asks finally after he’s let the news fully settle in his mind. 

Shiro sighs.

“On locker clean-out day.”

Keith looks up in surprise. It’s been two weeks since then.

“I think they’re going to offer you the captaincy.”

It isn’t what Keith is expecting and he blinks up at Shiro before pulling himself upright.

“What? Me?”

“Keith,” Shiro says. “Of course you.”

“I don’t want it if it means taking it away from you.”

“Keith,” Shiro says again. His hands are steady when they land on either side of Keith’s face, pulling his gaze up. “You’re not taking anything away from me that I wouldn’t have freely given you. Besides, you know I won’t be there.”

“Shiro, it’s still your team.”

“Yours now.”

“No.”

“Well, think about it so you’re ready when they ask,” Shiro says.

“If,” Keith corrects.

“If,” Shiro agrees, but with a smile that tells Keith it’s less uncertain than he’s hinted. 

Later, as they lay together in bed, Shiro is more forthcoming with details that he’s clearly been working out on his own for the last two weeks.

“I think I’m going to train,” Shiro says in between bites of spring roll. “Like Coran? Take on a few clients every summer.”

Keith smiles at the casual way Shiro tries to deliver the news that belies the depth of thought behind it. He’s beginning to recognize the pattern of Shiro closing ranks while he works out his problems internally first. 

“Coran’s gonna be pissed you’re poaching his clients.” Keith says, turning on his side to prop his head up and look at Shiro. 

“What do you mean?”

Keith leans forward to kiss him and pulls back with a smile. 

“Well, if you’re training, I’m your #1 client, right?” Keith asks. 

Shiro’s answering smile is slow and soft.

“Really?”

“Takashi,” Keith says and then lets his face drop back down, hiding what he knows is too much affection in the folds of Shiro’s t-shirt. 

“I love you,” Shiro says. 

It’s a lightning bolt through Keith.

“What?”

“Come on,” Shiro says, his thumb tracing the curve of Keith’s lips. “That can’t be a surprise.”

Shiro nudges Keith further back onto the bed and Keith goes without protest. He knows his eyes are wide, but he can’t get control of his face at the moment. 

“You...I…Shiro…” Keith says between the kisses that Shiro is pressing to his mouth. 

“I love you,” Shiro says again.  

Keith kisses him fiercely, pulling him down and then flipping them so he can straddle Shiro. He doesn’t let Shiro come up for air for a long time and only then to yank his t-shirt over his head and let Shiro slide out of his own. 

  
  


_X_  * _X_ * _X_  

 

It’s almost the end of August before the front office calls Keith in for a meeting. He tries not to be nervous, but the thought of sitting across the table from the team’s executive team makes him want to vomit or run or both. He doesn’t let Shiro come, which is made easier by the fact that Shiro isn’t allowed to drive because his arm is still in a sling from his latest surgery. 

A half hour later when he finds himself alone in a conference room with the team’s General Manager, James Brooks, he just barely regrets the decision.

“I’m gonna level with you, Kogane.” Brooks is a gruff, almost geriatric man with sharp blue eyes and paper thin skin that shows every vein and mottled speck. Keith instinctively doesn’t like him, but is practicing every skill he’s ever learned from Shiro to keep it off his face. “The Blades were fucking dumbasses to ever give you up, especially for the bag of nickels we gave them. You’re lightning in a bottle and they didn’t know how to use you.”

Keith is dumbstruck. His mouth is flapping wide open, but he can’t seem to get control of it. He just blinks at Brooks as the old man continues. 

“I know you heard the whole spiel when you signed your contract, but we want you to be part of the future here with the Paladins,” Brooks says. “Next year, we want you to step up and be the face of this franchise. That means more media, more time at events, and your best behavior at all times, you think you can do that?”

“Uh.” Keith swallows. “Yes?”

“You’ll also be wearing the C.”

Keith knew it was coming - Shiro had all but promised him so directly - but he knows his face still gives away his reluctance. 

“You can’t just replace Shiro like that,” he says, mostly to his own folded hands because he can’t quite look up at the executive sitting across from him.

“As you know, Takashi has chosen to announce his retirement before the season begins,” Brooks says, his words careful. “We agree it’s in his best interest to take a step back from playing.”

“But --” 

“Kogane, I’m not here to discuss another player’s status with you.”

Keith’s mouth snaps shut and he narrowly avoids crossing his arms in a huff. He balls his hands up into fists under the table instead and focuses on breathing. 

“Anything else, sir?” he asks. 

Brooks looks at him with an assessing smile. 

“I’m sure you appreciate that this is a leap of faith, Kogane,” Brooks says. “That said, I’ve been watching you. The coaches have been watching you. You’ll be a good captain if you put your mind to it. I understand you’re close friends with Takashi and I imagine he’ll be invaluable to you in the next year or so.”

Keith swallows hard.

“Yes, sir.”

Brooks sighs, but it’s in good humor.

“Alright, get out of here before I change my mind and choose someone who knows how to smile when I give them a promotion.”

Keith grimaces and forces himself to smile. Brooks scowls.

“That’s worse,” he says and Keith finally cracks a real smile at the dry delivery. Brooks points at it and then extends his hand to shake Keith’s. Keith grabs it and nods gratefully at his cue to leave. 

  
  


_X_  * _X_ * _X_  

 

He walks across the stage in the formal press room at the Paladins’ arena and Shiro is there waiting with a sweater that has Keith’s name on the back and a crisp white ‘C’ stitched on the front. Shiro grins as holds it for Keith and cameras from all around the room go off with flashes and clicks. He’s ditched his sling for the ceremony, but his wrist is still wrapped in a complicated brace that Keith can’t help but trace with his eyes as Shiro’s extends the sweater to him. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Shiro whispers, low enough so that it’s only for Keith. “So fucking proud.”

Keith holds onto him a little longer than necessary before stepping back and pulling the new jersey over his head. There’s a loud whistle from the crowd and Keith can’t help the grin tugging on his face. He waves to the cameras and then steps back with a nod, letting the GM take the mic. 

Later, when they finally escape from the stage, Shiro pulls him into an empty room and closes the door behind him. Keith collapses against Shiro, sagging into Shiro’s waiting embrace and Shiro’s hand comes up to cradle his head. 

“This isn’t the end, Keith,” Shiro says. “It’s just a new beginning.”

“How are you always like this?” Keith groans, his voice muffled in the Shiro’s chest.

“Like what?” 

Keith looks away and tries to gather his words so they come out right.

“You always... _ always _ find something positive even when the world hands you nothing but shit. I don’t know how you do it.”

Shiro tucks a stray piece of Keith’s hair behind his ear, his finger trailing along the shell. 

“I think it’s just a survival tactic,” Shiro says. When Keith frowns, he continues, his fingers still dancing on Keith’s neck. “When I was a kid, I was sick so much of the time, you know? If I didn’t find something else to look forward to, it would have consumed me. By the time I went into remission, it was just a habit.”

“Well,” Keith says. “If you ever need to not look on the bright side, that’s okay too.”

Shiro smiles and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Isn’t that what I have you for?” 

“Yeah.” Keith snorts. “I guess so.”

 

_X_  * _X_ * _X_  

 

That October when Keith takes the ice as the Paladins' Captain for the first time, he feels a thrill of certainty run through him the moment his skates touch down. This is going to be their year to win the Cup. He can feel it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end???? guess i have to retreat back into the woods and finish my novel now.


End file.
